LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY   OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  CRUZ 


b?  William  Dean  frotudic. 


VENETIAN    LIFE.     New  Holiday  Edition.     With  10  full-page 

illustrations  in  color  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett. 

THE  SAME,     isnio. 

In  Riverside  Aiding  Series.     2  vols.  i6mo. 
ITALIAN  JOURNEYS.     Holiday  Edition.     With  illustrations  by 

JOSEPH  PBNNELL. 

THE  SAME.     izmo. 
TUSCAN  CITIES.    Library  Edition. 

THE  SAME.     ramo. 
THEIR   WEDDING    JOURNEY.    Holiday  Edition.     Illustrated. 

THE  SAME.     Illustrated.     12010. 

THE  SAME.     i8mo. 
A  CHANCE  ACQUAINTANCE.     Illustrated. 

THB  SAME.     18  mo. 
SUBURBAN   SKETCHES.     Illustrated. 
A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 
THE  LADY  OF  THE  AROOSTOOK. 
THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY. 
THE   MINISTER'S   CHARGE. 
INDIAN   SUMMER. 
THE  RISE  OF  SILAS   LAPHAM. 
A  FEARFUL  RESPONSIBILITY. 
A  MODERN   INSTANCE. 
A  WOMAN'S   REASON. 
DR.   BREEN'S   PRACTICE. 

A  SEA  CHANGE;  OR,  LOVE'S  STOWAWAY.    A  Lyricated  Farce. 
THE  SLEEPING  CAR,  AND  OTHER  FARCES. 
THREE  VILLAGES. 
POEMS.       New    Revised    Edition. 
A  COUNTERFEIT  PRESENTMENT.     A  Comedy. 
OUT  OF  THE  QUESTION.     A  Comedy. 
CHOICE   AUTOBIOGRAPHIES.      Edited,  and  with  Critical   and 

Biographical  Essays,  by  Mr.  HOWELLS.  8  vols. 
THE  ELEVATOR  :  THE  SLEEPING  CAR  :  THE  PARLOR  CAR  : 

THE     REGISTER:    AN     INDIAN    GIVER,    a    Comedy:     THE 

SMOKING  CAR,  a  Farce:  BRIDE  ROSES,  a  Scene:  ROOM  45, 

a  Farce. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 


BY 


W.  D.  HOWELLS 

AUTHOR  OP  "VENETIAN  LIFE,"  "THEIR  WEDDING  JOURNEY" 

MA  CHANCE  ACQUAINTANCE,"  ETC. 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
flitoersibe  ptcpj*  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,   1874,  1902,  AND   1916,  BY  W.  D    HOWELLS 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


A  FOEEQONE  CONCLUSION. 


I. 

As  Don  Ippolito  passed  down  the  long  narrow 
calle  or  footway  leading  from  the  Campo  San 
Stefano  to  the  Grand  Canal  in  Venice,  he  peered 
anxiously  about  him :  now  turning  for  a  backward 
look  up  the  calle,  where  there  was  no  living  thing 
in  sight  but  a  cat  on  a  garden  gate ;  now  running 
a  quick  eye  along  the  palace  walls  that  rose  vast  on 
either  hand  and  notched  the  slender  strip  of  blue 
sky  visible  overhead  with  the  lines  of  their  jutting 
balconies,  chimneys,  and  cornices ;  and  now  glan- 
cing toward  the  canal,  where  he  could  see  the 
noiseless  black  boats  meeting  and  passing.  There 
was  no  sound  in  the  calle  save  his  own  footfalls  and 
the  harsh  scream  of  a  parrot  that  hung  in  the  sun- 
shine in  one  of  the  loftiest  windows ;  but  the  note 
of  a  peasant  crying  pots  of  pinks  and  roses  in  the 
campo  came  softened  to  Don  Ippolito's  sense,  and 
he  heard  the  gondoliers  as  they  hoarsely  jested  to- 
gether and  gossiped,  with  the  canal  between  them, 
at  the  next  gondola  station. 

The  first  tenderness  of   spring  was  in  the  air 

ihough  down  in  that  calle  there  was  yet  enough  of 

1 


2  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

the  wintry  rawness  to  chill  the  tip  of  Don  Ippolito's 
sensitive  nose,  which  he  rubbed  for  comfort  with  a 
handkerchief  of  dark  blue  calico,  and  polislied  for 
ornament  with  a  handkerchief  of  white  linen.  He 
restored  each  to  a  different  pocket  in  the  Bides  of 
the  ecclesiastical  talare,  or  gown,  reaching  almost 
to  his  ankles,  and  then  clutched  the  pocket  in  which 
he  had  replaced  the  linen  handkerchief,  as  if  to 
make  sure  that  something  he  prized  was  safe  with- 
in. He  paused  abruptly,  and,  looking  at  the  doors 
he  had  passed,  went  back  a  few  paces  and  stood  be- 
fore one  over  which  hung,  slightly  tilted  forward, 
an  oval  sign  painted  with  the  effigy  of  an  eagle,  a 
bundle  of  arrows,  and  certain  thunderbolts,  and 
bearing  the  legend,  CONSULATE  or  THE  UNITED 
STATES,  in  neat  characters.  Don  Ippolito  gave  a 
quick  sigh,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  seized  the 
bell-pull  and  jerked  it  so  sharply  that  it  seemed  to 
ihrust  out,  like  a  part  of  the  mechanism,  the  head 
of  an  old  serving-woman  at  the  window  above  him. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  demanded  this  head. 

"  Friends,"  answered  Don  Ippolito  in  a  rich,  sad 
voice. 

"  And  what  do  you  command  ?  "  further  asked 
fche  old  woman. 

Don  Ippolito  paused,  apparently  searching  foi 
his  voice,  before  he  inquired,  "  Is  it  here  that  th« 
f  /cnsul  of  America  lives  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  Is  he  perhaps  at  home  ?  " 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  8 

M  I  don't  know.  I  will  go  ask  him." 
"  Do  me  that  pleasure,  dear,"  said  Don  Ippolito, 
remained  knotting  his  fingers  before  the  closed 
door.  Presently  the  old  woman  returned,  and 
looking  out  long  enough  to  say,  "  The  consul  is  at 
home,"  drew  some  inner  bolt  by  a  wire  running  to 
the  lock,  that  let  the  door  start  open ;  then,  waiting 
to  hear  Don  Ippolito  close  it  again,  she  called  out 
from  her  height,  "  Favor  me  above/'  He  climbed 
the  dim  stairway  to  the  point  where  she  stood,  and 
followed  her  to  a  door,  which  she  flung  open  into 
an  apartment  so  brightly  lit  by  a  window  looking 
on  the  sunny  canal,  that  he  blinked  as  he  entered. 
"Signor  Console,"  said  the  old  woman,  "behold 
the  gentleman  who  desired  to  see  you  ;  "  and  at  the 
same  time  Don  Ippolito,  having  removed  his  broad, 
stiff,  three-cornered  hat,  came  forward  and  made  a 
beautiful  bow.  He  had  lost  for  the  moment  the 
trepidation  which  had  marked  his  approach  to  the 
consulate,  and  bore  himself  with  graceful  dignity. 
It  was  in  the  first  year  of  the  war,  and  from  a 
motive  of  patriotism  common  at  that  time,  Mr. 
Ferris  (one  of  my  many  predecessors  in  office  at 
Venice)  had  just  been  crossing  his  two  silken  gon- 
dola flags  above  the  consular  bookcase,  where  with 
their  gilt  lance-headed  staves,  and  their  vivid  stara 
%nd  stripes,  they  made  a  very  pretty  effect.  He 
filliped  a  little  dust  from  his  coat,  and  begged  Don 
Ippolito  to  be  seated,  with  the  air  of  putting  even  a 
Venetian  priest  on  a  footing  of  equality  with  othei 


4  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

men  under  the  folds  of  the  national  banner.  Mr. 
Ferris  had  the  prejudice  of  all  Italian  sympathizer! 
against  the  priests ;  but  for  this  he  could  hardly 
have  found  anything  in  Don  Ippolito  to  alarm  dis 
like.  His  face  was  a  little  thin,  and  the  chin  was 
delicate ;  the  nose  had  a  fine,  Dantesque  curve,  but 
its  final  droop  gave  a  melancholy  cast  to  a  counte- 
nance expressive  of  a  gentle  and  kindly  spirit ;  the 
eyes  were  large  and  dark  and  full  of  a  dreamy 
warmth.  Don  Ippolito's  prevailing  tint  was  that 
transparent  blueishness  which  comes  from  much 
shaving  of  a  heavy  black  beard ;  his  forehead  and 
temples  were  marble  white ;  he  had  a  tonsure  the 
size  of  a  dollar.  He  sat  silent  for  a  little  space, 
and  softly  questioned  the  consul's  face  with  his 
dreamy  eyes.  Apparently  he  could  not  gather 
courage  to  speak  of  his  business  at  once,  for  he 
turned  his  gaze  upon  the  window  and  said,  "  A 
beautiful  position,  Signor  Console." 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  pretty  place,"  answered  Mr.  Ferris, 
warily. 

"  So  much  pleasanter  here  on  the  Canalazzo  than 
on  the  campos  or  the  little  canals." 

"  Oh,  without  doubt." 

"Here  there  must  be  constant  amusement  in 
watching  the  boats  :  great  stir,  great  variety,  great 
life.  And  now  the  fine  season  commences,  and  the 
Signor  Console's  countrymen  will  be  coming  to 
Venice.  Perhaps,"  added  Don  Ippolito  with  a 
polite  dismay,  and  an  air  of  sudden  anxiety  to 


A  FOKEGONE  CONCLUSION.  5 

escape  from  his  own  purpose,  "  I  may  be  disturb- 
ing or  detaining  the  Signor  Console  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Ferris ;  "  I  am  quite  at  leisure 
for  the  present.  In  what  can  I  have  the  honor  of 
serving  you  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito  heaved  a  long,  ineffectual  sigh,  and 
taking  his  linen  handkerchief  from  his  pocket, 
wiped  his  forehead  with  it,  and  rolled  it  upon  hia 
knee.  He  looked  at  the  door,  and  all  round  the 
room,  and  then  rose  and  drew  near  the  consul,  who 
had  officially  seated  himself  at  his  desk. 

'«  I  suppose  that  the  Signor  Console  gives  pass- 
ports ?  "  he  asked. 

"Sometimes,"  replied  Mr.  Ferris,  with  a  cloud- 
ing face. 

Don  Ippolito  seemed  to  note  the  gathering  dis- 
*rust  and  to  be  helpless  against  it.  He  continued 
hastily :  "  Could  the  Signor  Console  give  a  pass- 
port for  America  ...  to  me  ?  " 

"  Are  you  an  American  citizen  ?  "  demanded  the 
consul  in  the  voice  of  a  man  whose  suspicions  are 
fully  roused. 

"  American  citizen  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  subject  of  the  American  republic." 

"  No,  surely  ;  I  have  not  that  happiness.  I  am 
An  Austrian  subject,"  returned  Don  Ippolito  a  little 
bitterly,  as  if  the  last  words  were  an  unpleasant 
morsel  in  the  mouth. 

"Then  I  can't  give  you  a  passport,"  said  Mr. 
Ferris,  somewhat  more  gently.  "  You  know,"  hf 


5  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

explained t  "  that  no  government  can  give  passport* 
to  foreign  subjects.  That  would  be  an  unheard-of 
thing." 

"  But  I  thought  that  to  go  to  America  an  Amer- 
ican passport  would  be  needed." 

"  In  America,"  returned  the  consul,  with  proud 
compassion,  "  they  don't  care  a  fig  for  passports. 
You  go  and  you  come,  and  nobody  meddles.  To  be 
sure,"  he  faltered,  "  just  now,  on  account  of  the 
secessionists,  they  do  require  you  to  show  a  pass- 
port at  New  York ;  but,"  he  continued  more  boldly, 
"  American  passports  are  usually  for  Europe  ;  and 
besides,  all  the  American  passports  in  the  world 
wouldn't  get  you  over  the  frontier  at  Peschiera. 
You  must  have  a  passport  from  the  Austrian  Lieu- 
tenancy of  Venice," 

Don  Ippolito  nodded  his  head  softly  several  times 
and  said,  "  Precisely,"  and  then  added  with  an  in- 
describable weariness,  "  Patience  !  Signor  Console, 
I  ask  your  pardon  for  the  trouble  I  have  given,"  and 
he  made  the  consul  another  low  bow. 

Whether  Mr.  Ferris's  curiosity  was  piqued,  and 
feeling  himself  on  the  safe  side  of  his  visitor  Le 
meant  to  know  why  he  had  come  on  such  an  errand, 
,*r  whether  he  had  some  kindlier  motive,  he  could 
hardly  have  told  himself,  but  he  said,  "  I  'm  very 
K>rry.  Perhaps  there  is  something  else  in  which  I 
ixrald  be  of  use  to  you," 

"  Ah,  I  hardly  know,"  cried  Don  Ippolito.  "  I 
really  had  a  kind  of  hope  in  coming  to  your  excel 
tency  ' 


A  FOBEGONE  CONCLUSION.  7 

"  I  am  not  an  excellency,"  interrupted  Mr.  Ferria, 
conscientiously. 

"  Many  excuses  !  But  now  it  seems  a  mere  besti- 
ality. I  was  so  ignorant  about  the  other  matter 
that  doubtless  I  am  also  quite  deluded  in  this." 

'"  As  to  that,  of  course  I  can't  say,"  answered  Mr. 
Ferris,  "  but  I  hope  not." 

"  Why,  listen,  signore !  "  said  Don  Ippolito,  pla  • 
cing  his  hand  over  that  pocket  in  which  he  kept  his 
linen  handkerchief.  "  I  had  something  that  it  had 
come  into  my  head  to  offer  your  honored  govern- 
ment for  its  advantage  in  this  deplorable  rebellion." 

"  Oh,"  responded  Mr.  Ferris  with  a  falling  coun- 
tenance. He  had  received  so  many  offers  of  help 
for  his  honored  government  from  sympathizing  for- 
eigners. Hardly  a  week  passed  but  a  sabre  came 
clanking  up  his  dim  staircase  with  a  Herr  Graf  or 
a  Herr  Baron  attached,  who  appeared  in  the  spotless 
panoply  of  his  Austrian  captaincy  or  lieutenancy, 
to  accept  from  the  consul  a  brigadier-generalship  in 
the  Federal  armies,  on  condition  that  the  consul 
would  pay  his  expenses  to  Washington,  or  at  least 
assure  him  of  an  exalted  post  and  reimbursement  of 
all  outlays  from  President  Lincoln  as  soon  as  he  ar- 
rived. They  were  beautiful  men,  with  the  com- 
plexion of  blonde  girls;  tneir  uniforms  fitted  like 
kid  gloves  ;  the  pale  blue,  or  pure  white,  or  huzzar 
black  of  their  coats  was  ravishingly  set  off  by  their 
••ed  or  gold  trimmings;  and  they  were  hard  to 
make  understand  that  brigadiers  of  American  birth 


8  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

swarmed  at  Washington,  and  that  if  they  went 
thither,  they  must  go  as  soldiers  of  fortune  at  theil 
own  risk.  But  they  were  very  polite  ;  they  begged 
pardon  when  they  knocked  their  scabbards  against 
the  consul's  furniture,  at  the  door  they  each  made 
him  a  magnificent  obeisance,  said  "  Servus !  "  in 
their  great  voices,  and  were  shown  out  by  the  old 
Marina,  abhorrent  of  their  uniforms  and  doubtful  of 
the  consul's  political  sympathies.  Only  yesterday 
she  had  called  him  up  at  an  unwonted  hour  to  re- 
ceive the  visit  of  a  courtly  gentleman  who  addressed 
him  as  Monsieur  le  Ministre,  and  offered  him  at  a 
bargain  ten  thousand  stand  of  probably  obsolescent 
muskets  belonging  to  the  late  Duke  of  Parma. 
Shabby,  hungry,  incapable  exiles  of  all  nations,  re- 
ligions, and  politics  beset  him  for  places  of  honor 
and  emolument  in  the  service  of  the  Union  ;  revolu- 
tionists out  of  business,  and  the  minions  of  banished 
despots,  were  alike  willing  to  be  fed,  clothed,  and 
dispatched  to  Washington  with  swords  consecrated 
to  the  perpetuity  of  the  republic. 

"  I  have  here,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  too  intent  upon 
showing  whatever  it  was  he  had  to  note  the  change 
in  the  consul's  mood,  "  the  model  of  a  weapon  of  my 
contrivance,  which  I  thought  the  government  of  the 
North  could  employ  successfully  in  cases  where  ita 
batteries  were  in  danger  of  captnre  by  the  Span- 
iards." 

44  Spaniards  ?  Spaniards  ?  We  have  no  war  witk 
Spain  I "  cried  the  consul. 


A  FOREGONE    CONCLUSION.  9 

44  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  Don  Ippolito  made  haste  to 
explain,  "  but  those  of  South  America  being  Spanish 
by  descent "  — 

"  But  we  are  not  fighting  the  South  Americans. 
We  are  fighting  our  own  Southern  States,  I  am 
sorry  to  say." 

"  Oh !  Many  excuses.  I  am  afraid  I  don't  un- 
derstand," said  Don  Ippolito  meekly ;  whereupon 
Mr.  Ferris  enlightened  him  in  a  formula  (of  which 
he  was  beginning  to  be  weary)  against  European 
misconception  of  the  American  situation.  Don  Ip- 
polito nodded  his  head  contritely,  and  when  Mr. 
Ferris  had  ended,  he  was  so  much  abashed  that  he 
made  no  motion  to  show  his  invention  till  the  other 
added,  "  But  no  matter  ;  I  suppose  the  contrivance 
would  work  as  well  against  the  Southerners  as  the 
South  Americans.  Let  me  see  it,  please ;  "  and 
then  Don  Ippolito,  with  a  gratified  smile,  drew  from 
his  pocket  the  neatly  finished  model  of  a  breech- 
loading  cannon. 

"  You  perceive,  Signor  Console,"  he  said  with 
new  dignity,  "  that  this  is  nothing  very  new  as  a 
breech-loader,  though  I  ask  you  to  observe  this  little 
improvement  for  restoring  the  breech  to  its  place, 
which  is  original.  The  grand  feature  of  my  inven- 
tion, however,  is  this  secret  chamber  in  the  breech, 
which  is  intended  to  hold  an  explosive  of  high  po- 
tency, with  a  fuse  coming  out  below.  The  gunner, 
finding  his  piece  in  danger,  ignites  this  fuse,  and 
takes  refuge  in  flight.  At  the  moment  the  enemy 


10  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

seizes  the  gun  the  contents  of  the  secret  chamber 
explode,  demolishing  the  piece  and  destroying  its 
captors." 

The  dreamy  warmth  in  Don  Ippolito's  deep  eyea 
kindled  to  a  flame ;  a  dark  red  glowed  in  his  thin 
cheeks ;  he  drew  a  box  from  the  folds  of  his  drapery 
and  took  snuff  in  a  great  whiff,  as  if  inhaling  the 
sulphurous  fumes  of  battle,  or  titillating  his  nostrils 
with  grains  of  gunpowder.  He  was  at  least  in  full 
enjoyment  of  the  poetic  power  of  his  invention,  and 
no  doubt  had  before  his  eyes  a  vivid  picture  of  a 
score  of  secessionists  surprised  and  blown  to  atoms 
in  the  very  moment  of  triumph.  "  Behold,  Signor 
Console  I  "  he  said. 

"  It 's  certainly  very  curious,"  said  Mr.  Ferris, 
turning  the  fearful  toy  over  in  his  hand,  and  ad- 
miring the  neat  workmanship  of  it.  "  Did  you 
make  this  model  yourself  ?  " 

44  Surely,"  answered  the  priest,  with  a  joyous 
pride ;  "  I  have  no  money  to  spend  upon  artisans  ; 
and  besides,  as  you  might  infer,  signore,  I  am  not 
very  well  seen  by  my  superiors  and  associates  on 
account  of  these  little  amusements  of  mine ;  so  I 
keep  them  as  much  as  I  can  to  myself. "  Don  Ippo- 
lito  laughed  nervously,  and  then  fell  silent  with  his 
eyes  intent  upon  the  consul's  face.  "  What  do  you 
think,  signore  ?  "  he  presently  resumed.  "  If  thig 
invention  were  brought  to  the  notice  of  your  gen- 
erous government,  would  it  not  patronize  my  labors  * 
I  have  read  that  America  is  the  land  of  enterprise* 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  11 

Who  knows  but  your  government  might  invite  mo 
co  take  service  under  it  in  some  capacity  in  which 
I  could  employ  those  little  gifts  that  Heaven"—- 
He  paused  again,  apparently  puzzled  by  the  com- 
passionate smile  on  the  consul's  lips.  "  But  tell  rae» 
•ignore,  how  this  invention  appears  to  you/' 

*'  Have  you  had  any  practical  experience  in  gun- 
nery ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ferris. 

"  Why,  certainly  not." 

"  Neither  have  I,"  continued  Mr.  Ferris,  "  but  I 
was  wondering  whether  the  explosive  in  this  secret 
chamber  would  not  become  so  heated  by  the  fre- 
quent discharges  of  the  piece  as  to  go  off  prema- 
turely sometimes,  and  kill  our  own  artillerymen  in- 
stead of  waiting  for  the  secessionists  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito's  countenance  fell,  and  a  dull 
shame  displaced  the  exultation  that  had  glowed  in 
it.  His  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  he  made  no 
attempt  at  reply,  so  that  it  was  again  Mr.  Ferris 
who  spoke.  "  You  see,  I  don't  really  know  any- 
thing more  of  the  matter  than  you  do,  and  I  don't 
undertake  to  say  whether  your  invention  is  disabled 
by  the  possibility  I  suggest  or  not.  Have  n't  you 
any  acquaintances  among  the  military,  to  whom 
you  could  show  your  model  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Don  Ippolito,  coldly,  u  I  don't 
eonsort  with  the  military.  Besides,  what  would  be 
thought  of  a  priest"  he  asked  with  a  bitter  stress 
jo.  the  word,  "  who  exhibited  such  an  invention  M 
that  "jO  an  officer  of  our  paternal  government  ?  " 


12  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

44  I  suppose  it  would  certainly  surprise  the  lieu- 
tenant-governor somewhat,"  said  Mr.  Ferris  with  a 
laugh.  "  May  I  ask,"  he  pursued  after  an  inter- 
val, "  whether  you  have  occupied  yourself  with 
other  inventions  ?  " 

44  I  have  attempted  a  great  many,"  replied  Don 
Ippolito  in  a  tone  of  dejection. 

44  Are  they  all  of  this  warlike  temper  ?  "  pursued 
the  consul. 

44  No,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  blushing  a  little, 
44  they  are  nearly  all  of  peaceful  intention.  It  was 
the  wish  to  produce  something  of  utility  which  set 
me  about  this  cannon.  Those  good  friends  of  mine 
who  have  done  me  the  honor  of  looking  at  my  at- 
tempts had  blamed  me  for  the  uselessness  of  my 
inventions  ;  they  allowed  that  they  were  ingenious, 
but  they  said  that  even  if  they  could  be  put  in  op- 
eration, they  would  not  be  what  the  world  cared  for. 
Perhaps  they  were  right.  I  know  very  little  of  the 
world,"  concluded  the  priest,  sadly.  He  had  risen 
to  go,  yet  seemed  not  quite  able  to  do  so  ;  there  was 
no  more  to  say,  but  if  he  had  come  to  the  consul 
with  high  hopes,  it  might  well  have  unnerved  him 
to  have  all  end  so  blankly.  He  drew  a  long,  sibi- 
lant breath  between  his  shut  teeth,  nodded  to  him- 
•elf  thrice,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Ferris  with  a  melan- 
choly bow,  said,  u  Signer  Console,  I  thank  you 
infinitely  for  your  kindness,  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
the  disturbance,  and  I  take  my  leave." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Mr.   Fen-is.     "Let   us  sec 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  18 

each  other  again.  In  regard  to  the  inventions,  — 
well,  you  must  have  patience."  He  dropped  into 
gome  proverbial  phrases  which  the  obliging  Latin 
tongues  supply  so  abundantly  for  the  races  who 
must  often  talk  when  they  do  not  feel  like  thinking, 
and  he  gave  a  start  when  Don  Ippolito  replied  in 
English,  "  Yes,  but  hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart 
sick." 

It  was  not  that  it  was  so  uncommon  to  have 
Italians  innocently  come  out  with  their  whole  slen- 
der stock  of  English  to  him,  for  the  sake  of  practice, 
as  they  told  him ;  but  there  were  peculiarities  in 
Don  Ippolito's  accent  for  which  he  could  not  ac- 
count. "  What,"  he  exclaimed,  "  do  you  know 
English?" 

**  I  have  studied  it  a  little,  by  my  myself," 
answered  Don  Ippolito,  pleased  to  have  his  Eng- 
lish recognized,  and  then  lapsing  into  the  safety  of 
Italian,  he  added,  "  And  I  had  also  the  help  of  an 
English  ecclesiastic  who  sojourned  some  months  in 
Venice,  last  year,  for  his  health,  and  who  used  to 
read  with  me  and  teach  me  the  pronunciation.  He 
was  from  Dublin,  this  ecclesiastic." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mr.  Ferris,  with  relief,  "I  see ;  " 
and  he  perceived  that  what  had  puzzled  him  in  Don 
Ippolito's  English  was  a  fine  brogue  superimposed 
upon  his  Italian  accent. 

"  For  some  time  I  have  had  this  idea  of  going  to 
America,  and  I  thought  that  the  first  thing  to  do 
was  to  equip  myself  with  the  language." 


14  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Um  !  "  said  Mr.  Ferris,  "  that  was  practical,  xl 
any  rate,"  and  he  mused  awhile.  By  and  by  he 
continued,  more  kindly  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "  I 
wish  I  could  ask  you  to  sit  down  again  ;  but  I  have 
an  engagement  which  I  must  make  haste  to  keep. 
Are  you  going  out  through  the  campo  ?  Pray  wait 
R  minute,  and  I  will  walk  with  you." 

Mr.  Ferris  went  into  another  room,  through  the 
open  door  of  which  Don  Ippolito  saw  the  parapher- 
nalia of  a-  painter's  studio:  an  easel  with  a  half- 
finished  picture  on  it ;  a  chair  with  a  palette  and 
brushes,  and  crushed  and  twisted  tubes  of  colors  ;  a 
lay  figure  in  one  corner ;  on  the  walls  scraps  of 
stamped  leather,  rags  of  tapestry,  desultory  sketches 
on  paper. 

Mr.  Fen-is  came  out  again,  brushing  his  hat. 

44  The  Signor  Console  amuses  himself  with  paint- 
ing, I  see,"  said  Don  Ippolito  courteously. 

44  Not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Ferris,  putting  on  hia 
gloves  ;  44 1  am  a  painter  by  profession,  and  I  amuse 
myself  with  consuling;  "l  and  as  so  open  a  matter 
needed  no  explanation,  he  said  no  more  about  it. 
Nor  is  it  quite  necessary  to  tell  how,  as  he  was  one 

1  Since  these  words  of  Mr.  Ferris  were  first  printed,  I  have  been  told 
that  a  more  eminent  painter,  namely  Rubens,  made  very  much  the  sa-ne 
reply  to  very  much  the  same  remark,  when  Spanish  Ambassador  in 
England.  "The  Ambassador  of  His  Catholic  Majesty,  I  see,  amusw 
nimself  by  painting  sometimes,"  said  a  visitor  who  found  him  at  hit 
easel.  "I  amuse  myself  by  playing  the  ambassador  sometimes,"  aa- 
*wered  Ruoens.  In  spite  of  the  similarity  of  the  speeches,  I  let  that  of 
Mr.  Ferris  stand,  for  I  am  satisfied  that  he  did  not  know  how  unbaa* 
imely  Rabeng  had  taken  the  words  out  of  his  mouth. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  o 

day  painting  in  New  York,  it  occurred  to  him  to 
make  use  of  a  Congressional  friend,  and  ask  for 
Borne  Italian  consulate,  he  did  not  care  which.  That 
of  Venice  happened  to  be  vacant :  the  income  was 
a  few  hundred  dollars ;  as  no  one  else  wanted  it, 
no  question  was  made  of  Mr.  Ferris's  fitness  for 
the  post,  and  he  presently  found  himself  possessed 
of  a  commission  requesting  the  Emperor  of  Austria 
to  permit  him  to  enjoy  and  exercise  the  office  of 
consul  of  the  ports  of  the  Lombardo- Venetian  king- 
dom, to  which  the  President  of  the  United  States 
appointed  him  from  a  special  trust  in  his  abilities 
and  integrity.  He  proceeded  at  once  to  his  post 
of  duty,  called  upon  the  ship's  chandler  with  whom 
they  had  been  left,  for  the  consular  archives,  and 
began  to  paint  some  Venetian  subjects. 

He  and  Don  Ippolito  quitted  the  Consulate  to- 
gether, leaving  Marina  to  digest  with  her  noonday 
porridge  the  wonder  that  he  should  be  walking 
amicably  forth  with  a  priest.  The  same  spectacle 
was  presented  to  the  gaze  of  the  campo,  where  they 
paused  in  friendly  converse,  and  were  seen  to  part 
with  many  politenesses  by  the  doctors  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, lounging  away  their  leisure,  as  the  Vene- 
tian fashion  is,  at  the  local  pharmacy. 

The  apothecary  craned  forward  over  his  counter, 
Wid  peered  through  the  open  door.  "  What  is  that 
blessed  Consul  of  America  doing  with  a  priest  ?  " 

"  The  Consul  of  America  with  a  priest  ?  "  d»- 
vanded  a  grave  old  man,  a  physician  with  a  beauti- 


16  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

ful  silvery  beard,  and  a  most  reverend  anl  senatorial 
presence,  but  one  of  the  worst  tongues  in  Venice, 
"  Oh  I  "  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  after  scrutiny  of 
the  two  through  his  glasses,  "  it 's  that  crack-brain 
Don  Ippolito  Rondinelli.  He  is  n't  priest  enough 
to  hurt  the  consul.  Perhaps  he  's  been  selling  him 
a  perpetual  motion  for  the  use  of  his  government, 
which  needs  something  of  the  kind  JHst  now.  Or 
maybe  he 's  been  posing  to  him  for  a  picture.  He 
would  make  a  very  pretty  Joseph,  give  him  Poti- 
phar's  wife  in  the  background,"  said  the  doctor,  who 
if  not  maligned  would  have  needed  much  more  to 
make  a  Joseph  of  him. 


n. 

MB.  FERRIS  took  his  way  through  the  devioui 
footways  where  the  shadow  was  chill,  and  through 
the  broad  campos  where  the  sun  was  tenderly  warm, 
and  the  towers  of  the  church  rose  against  the  speck- 
less  azure  of  the  vernal  heaven.  As  he  went  along, 
he  frowned  in  a  helpless  perplexity  with  the  case 
of  Don  Ippolito,  whom  he  had  begun  by  doubting 
for  a  spy  with  some  incomprehensible  motive,  and 
had  ended  by  pitying  with  a  certain  degree  of 
amusement  and  a  deep  sense  of  the  futility  of  his 
compassion.  He  presently  began  to  think  of  him 
with  a  little  disgust,  as  people  commonly  think  of 
one  whom  they  pity  and  yet  cannot  help,  and  he 
made  haste  to  cast  off  the  hopeless  burden.  Ho 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  struck  his  stick  on  the 
imooth  paving-stones,  and  let  his  eyes  rove  up  and 
down  the  fronts  of  the  houses,  for  the  sake  of  the 
pretty  faces  that  glanced  out  of  the  casements. 
He  was  a  young  man,  and  it  was  spring,  and  this 
was  Venice.  He  made  himself  joyfully  part  of  the 
city  and  the  season ;  he  was  glad  of  the  narrowness 
of  the  streets,  of  the  good-humored  jostling  and 
pushing;  he  crouched  into  an  arched  doorway  to 
let  a  water-carrier  pass  with  her  copper  buckets 
a 


18  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

dripping  at  the  end  of  the  yoke  balanced  on  her 
shoulder,  and  he  returned  her  smiles  and  excuses 
with  others  as  broad  and  gay ;  he  brushed  by  the 
swelling  hoops  of  ladies,  and  stooped  before  the 
unwieldy  burdens  of  porters,  who  as  they  staggered 
through  the  crowd  with  a  thrust  hero  and  a  shov* 
there  forgave  themselves,  laughing,  with  "  We  are 
in  Venice,  signori ;  "  and  he  stood  aside  for  the  files 
of  soldiers  clanking  heavily  over  the  pavement,  their 
muskets  kindling  to  a  blaze  in  the  sunlit  campos  and 
quenched  again  in  the  damp  shadows  of  the  calles. 
His  ear  was  taken  by  the  vibrant  jargoning  of 
the  boatmen  as  they  pushed  their  craft  under  the 
bridges  he  crossed,  and  the  keen  notes  of  the  cana- 
ries and  the  songs  of  the  golden-billed  blackbirds 
wnose  cages  hung  at  lattices  far  overhead.  Heaps 
of  oranges,  topped  by  the  fairest  cut  in  halves, 
gave  their  color,  at  frequent  intervals,  to  the  dusky 
corners  and  recesses  and  the  long-drawn  cry  of  the 
venders,  "  Oranges  of  Palermo !  "  rose  above  the 
clatter  of  feet  and  the  clamor  of  other  voices.  At 
a  little  shop  where  butter  and  eggs  and  milk 
abounded,  together  with  early  flowers  of  various 
sorts,  he  bought  a  bunch  of  hyacinths,  blue  and 
white  and  yellow,  and  he  presently  stood  smelling 
these  while  he  waited  in  the  hotel  parlor  for  the 
ladies  to  whom  he  had  sent  his  card.  He  turned  at 
the  sound  of  drifting  drapery,  and  could  not  forbear 
placing  the  hyacinths  in  the  hand  of  Miss  Florida 
Vervain,  who  had  come  into  the  room  to  receiyt 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  19 

She  was  a,  girl  of  about  seventeen  years,  who 
looked  older ;  she  was  tall  rather  than  short,  and 
rather  full,  —  though  it  could  not  be  said  that  she 
erred  in  point  of  solidity.  In  the  attitudes  of  shy 
hauteur  into  which  she  constantly  fell,  there  was  a 
touch  of  defiant  awkwardness  which  had  a  certain 
fascination.  She  was  blonde,  with  a  throat  and 
hands  of  milky  whiteness ;  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  freckles  on  her  regular  face,  where  a  quick  color 
came  and  went,  though  her  cheeks  were  habitually 
somewhat  pale ;  her  eyes  were  very  blue  under 
their  level  brows,  and  the  lashes  were  even  lighter 
in  color  than  the  masses  of  her  fair  gold  hair  ;  the 
edges  of  the  lids  were  touched  with  the  faintest  red. 
The  late  Colonel  Vervain  of  the  United  States 
army,  whose  complexion  his  daughter  had  inher- 
ited, was  an  officer  whom  it  would  not  have  been 
peaceable  to  cross  in  any  purpose  or  pleasure,  and 
Miss  Vervain  seemed  sometimes  a  little  burdened 
by  the  passionate  nature  which  he  had  left  her  to- 
gether with  the  tropical  name  he  had  bestowed  in 
honor  of  the  State  where  he  had  fought  the  Semi- 
noles  in  his  youth,  and  where  he  chanced  still  to  be 
stationed  when  she  was  born ;  she  had  the  air  of 
being  embarrassed  in  presence  of  herself,  and  of 
having  an  anxious  watch  upon  her  impulses.  I  do 
not  know  how  otherwise  to  describe  the  effort  of 
proud,  helpless  femininity,  which  would  have  struck 
the  close  observe!  in  Miss  Vervain. 

44  Delicious  !  "   she  saidv  in  a  deep  voice,  which 


20  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

conveyed  something  of  this  anxiety  in  its  guai-ded 
tones,  and  yet  was  not  wanting  in  a  kind  of  frank- 
ness. "  Did  you  mean  them  for  me,  Mr.  Ferris  ?  ' 

c*  I  did  n't,  but  I  do,"  answered  Mr.  Ferris.  "  I 
bought  them  in  ignorance,  but  I  understand  now 
what  they  were  meant  for  by  nature  ;  "  and  in  fact 
the  hyacinths,  with  their  smooth  textures  and  their 
pure  colors,  harmonized  well  with  Miss  Vervain,  aa 
she  bent  her  face  over  them  and  inhaled  their  full, 
rich  perfume. 

"  I  will  put  them  in  water,"  she  said,  "  if  you  '11 
excuse  me  a  moment.  Mother  will  be  down  di- 
rectly." 

Before  she  could  return,  her  mother  xustled  into 
the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Vervain  was  gracefully,  fragilely  unlike  hei 
daughter.  She  entered  with  a  gentle  and  gliding 
step,  peering  near-sightedly  about  through  her 
glasses,  and  laughing  triumphantly  when  she  had 
determined  Mr.  Ferris's  exact  position,  where  he 
Btood  with  a  smile  shaping  his  full  brown  beard 
and  glancing  from  his  hazel  eyes.  She  was  dressed 
in  perfect  taste  with  reference  to  her  matronly 
years,  and  the  lingering  evidences  of  her  widow- 
hood, and  she  had  an  unaffected  naturalness  of 
manner  which  even  at  her  age  of  forty-eight  could 
not  be  called  less  than  charming.  She  spoke  in  a 
trusting,  caressing  tone,  to  which  no  man  at  least 
could  respond  unkindly. 

"So  very  good  of  you,  to  take  all  this  trouble 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  21 

Mr.  Ferris,"  she  said,  giving  him  a  friendly  hand, 
u  and  I  suppose  you  are  letting  us  encroach  upon 
very  valuable  time.  I  'm  quite  ashamed  to  take  it. 
But  is  n't  it  a  heavenly  day  ?  What  /  call  a  per- 
fect day,  just  right  every  way ;  none  of  those  dis- 
agreeable extremes.  It 's  so  unpleasant  to  have  it 
too  hot,  for  instance.  I  *m  the  greatest  person  foi 
moderation,  Mr.  Ferris,  and  I  carry  the  principle 
into  everything ;  but  I  do  think  the  breakfasts  at 
these  Italian  hotels  are  too  light  altogether.  I 
like  our  American  breakfasts,  don't  you  ?  I  Ve 
been  telling  Florida  I  can't  stand  it;  we  really 
must  make  some  arrangement.  To  be  sure,  you 
ought  n't  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as  eating,  in  a 
place  like  Venice,  all  poetry ;  but  a  sound  mind  in 
a  sound  body,  I  say.  We  're  perfectly  wild  over 
it.  Don't  you  think  it 's  a  place  that  grows  upon 
you  very  much,  Mr.  Ferris  ?  All  those  associations, 
—it  does  seem  too  much  ;  and  the  gondolas  every- 
where. But  I  'm  always  afraid  the  gondoliers 
cheat  us ;  and  in  the  stores  I  never  feel  safe  a  mo- 
ment —  not  a  moment.  I  do  think  the  Venetians 
are  lacking  in  truthfulness,  a  little.  I  don't  be- 
lieve they  understand  our  American  fairdealing 
and  sincerity.  I  should  n't  want  to  do  them  injus- 
tice, but  I  really  think  they  take  advantages  in 
oargaining.  Now  such  a  thing  even  as  corals. 
Florida  is  extremely  fond  of  them,  and  we  bought 
ft  set  yesterday  in  the  Piazza,  and  I  know  we  paid 
too  much  for  them.  Florida,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain, 


22  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

for  her  daughter  had  reentered  the  room,  and  stood 
with  some  shawls  and  wraps  upon  her  arm,  pa- 
tiently waiting  for  the  conclusion  of  the  elder  lady's 
speech,  *'  I  wish  you  would  bring  down  that  set  oi 
corals.  I  'd  like  Mr.  Ferris  to  give  an  unbiased 
opinion.  I  'm  sure  we  were  cheated." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  corals,  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain," interposed  Mr.  Ferris. 

"Well,  but  you  ought  to  see  this  set  for  the 
beauty  of  the  color ;  they  're  really  exquisite.  I  'm 
sure  it  will  gratify  your  artistic  taste." 

Miss  Vervain  hesitated  with  a  look  of  desire  to 
obey,  and  of  doubt  whether  to  force  the  pleasure 
upon  Mr.  Ferris.  "  Won't  it  do  another  time, 
mother  ? "  she  asked  faintly ;  "the  gondola  is 
waiting  for  us." 

Mrs.  Vervain  gave  a  frailish  start  from  the  chair, 
into  which  she  had  sunk.  "  Oh,  do  let  us  be  off 
at  once,  then,"  she  said  ;  and  when  they  stood  on 
the  landing-stairs  of  the  hotel :  "  What  gloomy 
things  these  gondolas  are  I "  she  added,  while  the 
gondolier 'with  one  foot  on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat 
received  the  ladies'  shawls,  and  then  crooked  his 
arm  for  them  to  rest  a  hand  on  in  stepping  aboard  ; 
*  I  wondei  they  don't  paint  them  some  cheerful 
tolor." 

"  Blue,  or  pink,  Mrs.  Vervain  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Ferris.  "  I  knew  you  were  coming  to  that  ques- 
tion ;  they  all  do.  But  we  need  n't  have  the  top 
on  at  all,  if  it  depresses  your  spirits.  We  shall  be 
nwt  warm  enough  in  the  open  sunlight." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  23 

"  Well,  have  it  off,  then.  It  sends  the  cold  chills 
Drer  me  to  look  at  it.  What  did  Byron  call  it  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  it 's  time  for  Byron,  now.  It  was  very 
good  of  you  not  to  mention  him  before,  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain. Bat  I  knew  he  had  to  come.  He  called  it 
a  coffin  clapped  in  a  canoe." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  I  always  feel 
as  if  I  were  going  to  my  own  funeral  when  I  get 
into  it ;  and  I  've  certainly  had  enough  of  funerals 
never  to  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  another, 
as  long  as  I  live." 

She  settled  herself  luxuriously  upon  the  feather* 
stuffed  leathern  cushions  when  the  cabin  was  re- 
moved. Death  had  indeed  been  near  her  very 
often;  father  and  mother  had  been  early  lost  to 
her,  and  the  brothers  and  sisters  orphaned  with  her 
had  faded  and  perished  one  after  another,  as  they 
ripened  to  men  and  women ;  she  had  seen  four  of 
her  own  children  die  ;  her  husband  had  been  dead 
six  years.  All  these  bereavements  had  left  her 
what  they  had  found  her.  She  had  truly  grieved, 
and,  as  she  said,  she  had  hardly  ever  been  out  of 
black  since  she  could  remember. 

"  I  never  was  in  colors  when  I  was  a  girl,"  she 
went  on,  indulging  many  obituary  memories  as  the 
gondola  dipped  and  darted  down  the  canal,  "  and 
I  was  married  in  my  mourning  for  my  last  sister. 
It  did  seem  a  little  too  much  when  she  went,  Mr. 
Ferris.  I  was  too  young  to  feel  it  so  much  about 
the  others  but  we  were  nearly  of  the  same  age,  and 


24  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

fchat  m.'ikes  a  difference,  don't  you  know.  First  a 
brother  and  then  a  sister  :  it  was  very  strange  how 
they  kept  going  that  way.  I  seemed  to  break  the 
charm  when  I  go(t  married;  though,  to  be  sure, 
there  was  no  brother  left  after  Marian." 

Miss  Vervain  heard  her  f  mother's  mortuary 
prattle  with  a  face  from  which  no  impatience  of  it 
could  be  inferred,  and  Mr.  Ferris  made  no  com- 
ment on  what  was  oddly  various  in  character  and 
manner,  for  Mrs.  Vervain  touched  upon  the  gloom- 
iest facts  ot  her  history  with  a  certain  impersonal 
statistical  interest.  They  were  rowing  across  the 
lagoon  to  the  Island  of  San  Lazzaro,  where  for  rea- 
sons of  her  own  she  intended  to  venerate  the  con- 
vent in  which  Byron  studied  the  Armenian  lan- 
guage preparatory  to  writing  his  gruat  poem  in  it ; 
if  her  pilgrimage  had  no  very  earnest  motive,  it  was 
worthy  of  the  fact  which  it  was  designed  to  honor. 
The  lagoon  was  of  a  perfect,  shining  smoothness, 
broken  by  the  shallows  over  which  the  ebbing  tide 
had  left  the  sea-weed  trailed  like  long,  disheveled 
hair.  The  fishermen,  as  they  waded  about  staking 
their  nets,  or  stooped  to  gather  the  small  shell-fish 
of  the  shallows,  showed  legs  as  brown  and  tough  as 
those  of  the  apostles  in  Titian's  Assumption.  Here 
and  there  was  a  boat,  with  a  boy  or  an  old  man 
asleep  in  the  bottom  of  it.  The  gulls  sailed  high, 
white  flakes  against  the  illimitable  blue  of  the  heav- 
ens ;  the  air,  though  it  was  of  early  spring,  and  in 
the  shade  had  a  salty  pungency,  was  here  almost 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  26 

languorously  warm ;  in  the  motionless  splendors 
and  rich  colors  of  the  scene  there  was  a  melancholy 
before  which  Mrs.  Vervain  fell  fitfully  silent.  No* 
and  then  Ferris  briefly  spoke,  calling  Miss  Vervain's 
notice  to  this  or  that,  and  she  briefly  responded. 
As  they  passed  the  mad-house  of  San  Servolo,  & 
maniac  standing  at  an  open  window  took  his  black 
velvet  skull-cap  from  his  white  hair,  bowed  low 
three  times,  and  kissed  his  hand  to  the  ladies. 
The  Lido  in  front  of  them  stretched  a  brown  strip 
of  sand  with  white  villages  shining  out  of  it ;  on 
their  left  the  Public  Gardens  showed  a  mass  of 
hovering  green ;  far  beyond  and  above,  the  ghost- 
like snows  of  the  Alpine  heights  haunted  the  misty 
horizon. 

It  was  chill  in  the  shadow  of  the  convent  when 
they  landed  at  San  Lazzaro,  and  it  was  cool  in  the 
parlor  where  they  waited  for  the  monk  who  was  to 
show  them  through  the  place ;  but  it  was  still  and 
warm  in  the  gardened  court,  where  the  bees  mur- 
mured among  the  crocuses  and  hyacinths  under  the 
noonday  sun.  Miss  Vervain  stood  looking  out  of 
the  window  upon  the  lagoon,  while  her  mother 
drifted  about  the  room,  peering  at  the  objects  on 
the  wall  through  her  eyeglasses.  She  was  praising 
a  Chinese  painting  of  fish  on  rice-paper,  when  a 
young  monk  entered  with  a  cordial  greeting  in 
English  for  Mr.  Ferris.  She  turned  and  saw  them 
shaking  hands,  but  at  the  same  moment  her  eye- 
glasses abandoned  her  nose  with  a  vigorous  leap* 


26  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

she  gave  an  amiable  laugh,  and  groping  for  them 
over  her  dress,  bowed  at  random  as  Mr.  Ferris  pre- 
sented Padre  Girolamo. 

"  I  've  been  admiring  this  painting  so  much,  Pa- 
dre Girolamo,"  she  said,  with  instant  good- will,  and 
taking  the  monk  into  the  easy  familiarity  of  her 
friendship  by  the  tone  with  which  she  spoke  hifl 
name.  "  Some  of  the  brothers  did  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh  no,?r  said  the  monk,  "  it 's  a  Chinese  paint- 
ing. We  hung  it  up  there  because  it  was  given  to 
us,  and  was  curious." 

"  Well,  now,  do  you  know,"  returned  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, "  I  thought  it  was  Chinese  !  Their  things  are 
BO  odd.  But  really,  in  an  Armenian  convent  it 's 
very  misleading.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  leave 
it  there ;  it  certainly  does  throw  people  off  the 
track,"  she  added,  subduing  the  expression  to  some- 
thing very  lady-like,  by  the  winning  appeal  with 
which  she  used  it. 

"  Oh,  but  if  they  put  up  Armenian  paintings  in 
Chinese  convents  ?  "  said  Mr.  Ferris. 

"  You  're  joking !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vervain,  looking 
at  him  with  a  graciously  amused  air.  "  There  are 
no  Chinese  convents.  To  be  sure  those  rebels  are 
a  kind  of  Christians,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "  but 
there  can't  be  many  of  them  left,  poor  things,  hun- 
dreds of  them  executed  at  a  time,  that  way.  It 's 
perfectly  sickening  to  read  of  it;  and  you  can't 
help  it,  you  know.  But  they  say  they  haven't 
really  so  much  feeling  as  we  have  —  not  so  nerv 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  27 

She  walked  by  the  side  of  the  young  friar  as  he 
led  the  way  to  such  parts  of  the  convent  as  are  open 
to  visitors,  and  Mr.  Ferris  carne  after  with  her 
daughter,  who,  he  fancied,  met  his  attempts  at  talk 
with  sudden  and  more  than  usual  hauteur.  "  What 
a  fool !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Is  she  afraid  I  shall 
be  wanting  to  make  love  to  her  ?  "  and  he  followed 
in  rather  a  sulky  silence  the  course  of  Mrs.  Vervain 
and  her  guide.  The  library,  the  chapel,  and  the 
museum  called  out  her  friendliest  praises,  and  in 
the  last  she  praised  the  mummy  on  show  there  at 
the  expense  of  one  she  had  seen  in  New  York  ;  but 
when  Padre  Girolamo  pointed  out  the  desk  in  the 
refectory  from  which  one  of  the  brothers  read  while 
the  rest  were  eating,  she  took  him  to  task.  "  Oh, 
but  I  can't  think  that's  at  all  good  for  the  diges- 
tion, you  know,  —  using  the  brain  that  way  whilst 
you're  at  table.  I  really  hope  you  don't  listen 
too  attentively ;  it  would  be  better  for  you  in  the 
long  run,  even  in  a  religious  point  of  view.  But 
now  —  Byron  !  You  must  show  me  his  cell !  "  The 
monk  deprecated  the  non-existence  of  such  a  cell, 
and  glanced  in  perplexity  at  Mr.  Ferris,  who  came 
to  his  relief.  "  You  could  n't  have  seen  his  cell,  if 
he'd  had  one,  Mrs.  Vervain.  They  don't  admit 
ladies  to  the  cloister." 

"  What  nonsense  I  "  answered  Mrs.  Vervain,  ap- 
parently regarding  this  as  another  of  Mr.  Ferris's 
pleasantries ;  but  Padre  Girolamo  silently  confirmed 
bis  statement,  and  she  briskly  assailed  the  rule  an  a 


28  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

disrespect  to  the  sex,  which  reflected  even  upon  the 
Virgin,  the  object,  as  he  was  forced  to  allow,  of 
their  high  veneration.  He  smiled  patiently,  and 
confessed  that  Mrs.  Vervain  had  all  the  reasons  on 
her  side.  At  the  polyglot  printing-office,  where 
she  handsomely  bought  every  kind  of  Armenian 
book  and  pamphlet,  and  thus  repaid  in  the  only 
way  possible  the  trouble  their  visit  had  given,  he 
did  not  offer  to  take  leave  of  them,  but  after  speak- 
ing with  Ferris,  of  whom  he  seemed  an  old  friend, 
he  led  them  through  the  garden  environing  the  con- 
vent, to  a  little  pavilion  perched  on  the  wall  that 
defends  the  island  from  the  tides  of  the  lagoon.  A 
lay-brother  presently  followed  them,  bearing  a  tray 
with  coffee,  toasted  rusk,  and  a  jar  of  that  conserve 
of  rose-leaves  which  is  the  convent's  delicate  hospi- 
tality to  favored  guests.  Mrs.  Vervain  cried  out 
over  the  poetic  confection  when  Padre  Girolamo 
told  her  what  it  was,  and  her  daughter  suffered  her- 
self to  express  a  guarded  pleasure.  The  amiable 
matron  brushed  the  crumbs  of  the  baicolo  from  hei 
lap  when  the  lunch  was  ended,  and  fitting  on  hex 
glasses  leaned  forward  for  a  better  look  at  tho 
monk's  black-bearded  face.  "I'm  perfectly  de- 
lighted," she  said.  "  You  must  be  very  happy 
here.  I  suppose  you  are." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  monk  rapturously;  "so 
happy  that  I  should  be  content  never  to  leave  San 
Lazzaro.  I  came  here  when  I  was  very  young,  and 
She  greater  part  of  my  life  has  been  passed  on  thia 
little  island.  It  is  my  home  —  my  country." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  29 

w  Do  you  never  go  away  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  sometimes  to  Constantinople,  some- 
times to  London  and  Paris." 

"  And  you've  never  been  to  America  yet  ?  Well 
now,  I  '11  tell  you ;  you  ought  to  go.  You  would 
like  it,  I  know,  and  our  people  would  give  you  a 
very  cordial  reception." 

44  Reception  ?  "  The  monk  appealed  once  more 
to  Ferris  with  a  look. 

Ferris  broke  into  a  laugh.  "  I  don't  believe  Pa- 
dre Girolamo  would  come  in  quality  of  distinguished 
foreigner,  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  I  don't  think  he'd 
know  what  to  do  with  one  of  our  cordial  recep- 
tions." 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  go  to  America,  any  way. 
He  can't  really  know  anything  about  us  till  he  'a 
been  there.  Just  think  how  ignorant  the  English 
are  of  our  country  1  You  will  come,  won't  you  ? 
I  should  be  delighted  to  welcome  you  at  my  house 
in  Providence.  Rhode  Island  is  a  small  State,  but 
there 's  a  great  deal  of  wealth  there,  and  very  good 
society  in  Providence.  It 's  quite  New- Yorky,  you 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain  expressively.  She  rose 
as  she  spoke,  and  led  the  way  back  to  the  gondola. 
She  told  Padre  Girolamo  that  they  were  to  be  some 
weeks  in  Venice,  and  made  him  promise  to  break- 
fast with  them  at  their  hotel.  She  smiled  and 
aodded  to  him  after  the  boat  had  pushed  off,  and 
fcept  him  bowing  on  the  landing-stairs. 

•4  What  a  lovely  place,  and  what  a  perfectly  heav- 


80  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

enly  morning  you  have  given  us,  Mr.  Ferris  I  We 
never  can  thank  you  enough  for  it.  And  now,  do 
you  know  what  I  'm  thinking  of?  Perhaps  you  can 
help  me.  It  was  Byron's  studying  there  put  me 
in  mind  of  it.  How  soon  do  the  mosquitoes  come  ?  " 

"  About  the  end  of  June,"  responded  Ferris  me- 
chanically, staring  with  helpless  mystification  at 
Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Very  well ;  then  there  's  no  reason  why  we 
shouldn't  stay  in  Venice  till  that  time.  We  are 
both  very  fond  of  the  place,  and  we  'd  quite  con- 
cluded, this  morning,  to  stop  here  till  the  mosqui- 
toes came.  You  know,  Mr.  Ferris,  my  daughter 
had  to  leave  school  much  earlier  than  she  ought,  for 
my  health  has  obliged  me  to  travel  a  great  deal 
since  I  lost  my  husband ;  and  I  must  have  her  with 
me,  for  we  're  all  that  there  is  of  us  ;  we  have  n't  a 
chick  or  a  child  that's  related  to  us  anywhere.  But 
wherever  we  stop,  even  for  a  few  weeks,  I  contrive 
to  get  her  some  kind  of  instruction.  I  feel  the  need 
of  it  so  much  in  my  own  case  ;  for  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Mr.  Ferris,  I  married  too  young.  I  suppose 
I  should  do  the  same  thing  over  again  if  it  was  to 
be  done  over  ;  but  don't  you  see,  my  mind  was  n't 
properly  formed ;  and  then  following  my  husband 
about  from  pillar  to  post,  and  my  first  baby  born 
when  I  was  nineteen  —  well,  it  was  n't  education, 
»t  any  rate,  whatever  else  it  was  ;  and  I  've  deter- 
mined that  Florida,  though  we  are  such  a  pair  ol 
wanderers,  shall  not  have  my  regrets.  I  got  teaob 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  81 

ere  for  her  in  England,  —  the  English  are  nst  any- 
thing like  so  disagreeable  at  home  as  they  are  in 
traveling,  and  we  stayed  there  two  years,  —  and  I 
did  in  France,  and  I  did  in  Germany.  And  now, 
Italian.  Here  we  are  in  Italy,  and  I  think  we 
ought  to  improve  the  time.  Florida  knows  a  good 
deal  of  Italian  already,  for  her  music  teacher  in 
France  was  an  Italian,  and  he  taught  her  the  lan- 
guage as  well  as  music.  What  she  wants  now,  I 
should  say,  is  to  perfect  her  accent  and  get  facility. 
I  think  she  ought  to  have  some  one  come  every  day 
and  read  and  converse  an  hour  or  two  with  her." 

Mrs.  Vervain  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  and  looked  at 
Ferris,  who  said,  feeling  that  the  matter  was  referred 
to  him,  "  I  think  —  without  presuming  to  say  what 
Miss  Vervain's  need  of  instruction  is  —  that  your 
idea  is  a  very  good  one."  He  mused  in  silence  his 
wonder  that  so  much  addlepatedness  as  was  at  once 
observable  in  Mrs.  Vervain  should  exist  along  with 
BO  much  common-sense.  "  It 's  certainly  very  good 
in  the  abstract,"  he  added,  with  a  glance  at  the 
daughtei,  as  if  the  sense  must  be  hers.  She  did 
not  meet  his  glance  at  once,  but  with  an  impatient 
recognition  of  the  heat  that  was  now  great  for  the 
warmth  with  which  she  was  dressed,  she  pushed  her 
sleeve  from  her  wrist,  showing  its  delicious  white- 
ness, and  letting  her  fingers  trail  through  the  cool 
water ;  she  dried  them  on  ber  handkerchief,  and 
then  bent  her  eyes  full  upon  him  as  if  challenging 
him  to  think  this  unlady-like. 


82  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  No,  clearly  the  sense  does  not  come  from  her,' 
Baid  Ferris  to  himself ;  it  is  impossible  to  think  well 
of  the  mind  of  a  girl  who  treats  one  with  tadt  con- 
tempt. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Mrs.  Vervain,  "  it 's  certainly 
very  good  in  the  abstract.  But  oh  dear  me !  you  've 
no  idea  of  the  difficulties  in  the  way.  I  may  speak 
frankly  with  you,  Mr.  Ferris,  for  you  are  here  as 
the  representative  of  the  country,  and  you  natur- 
ally sympathize  with  the  difficulties  of  Americans 
abroad ;  the  teachers  will  fall  in  love  with  their 
pupils." 

"  Mother ! "  began  Miss  Vervain ;  and  then  she 
checked  herself. 

Ferris  gave  a  vengeful  laugh.  "  Really,  Mrs. 
Vervain,  though  I  sympathize  with  you  in  my 
official  capacity,  I  must  own  that  as  a  man  and  a 
brother,  I  can't  help  feeling  a  little  sorry  for  those 
poor  fellows,  too." 

"  To  be  sure,  they  are  to  be  pitied,  of  course,  and 
J  feel  for  them ;  I  did  when  I  was  a  girl ;  for  the 
same  thing  used  to  happen  then.  I  don't  know  why 
Florida  should  be  subjected  to  such  embarrassments, 
too.  It  does  seem  sometimes  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing in  the  blood.  They  all  get  the  idea  that  you 
lave  money,  you  know." 

"  Then  I  should  say  that  it  might  be  something 
in  the  pocket,"  suggested  Ferris  with  a  look  at  Miss 
Vervain,  in  whose  silent  suffering,  as  he  imagined 
*  fca  found  a  malicious  consolation  for  her  scorn. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  33 

"  Well,  whatever  it  is,"  replied  Mrs.  Vervain, 
*  it 's  too  vexatious.  Of  course,  going  to  new  places, 
that  way,  as  we  're  always  doing,  and  only  going  to 
itay  for  a  limited  time,  perhaps,  you  can't  pick  and 
choose.  And  even  when  you  do  get  an  elderly 
teacher,  they  're  as  bad  as  any.  It  really  is  too  try- 
ing. Now,  when  I  was  talking  with  that  nice  monk 
of  yours  at  the  convent,  there,  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  how  perfectly  delightful  it  would  be  if 
Florida  could  have  him  for  a  teacher.  Why  could  n't 
ahe  ?  He  told  me  that  he  would  come  to  take  break- 
fast or  lunch  with  us,  but  not  dinner,  for  he  always 
had  to  be  at  the  convent  before  nightfall.  Well, 
he  might  come  to  give  the  lessons  sometime  in  the 
middle  of  the  day." 

44  You  could  n't  manage  it,  Mrs.  Vervain,  I  know 
you  could  n't,"  answered  Ferris  earnestly.  44  I  'm 
sure  the  Armenians  never  do  anything  of  the  kind. 
They  're  all  very  busy  men,  engaged  in  ecclesias- 
tical or  literary  work,  and  they  could  n't  give  the 
time." 

4  Why  not?    There  was  Byron." 

"  But  Byron  went  to  them,  and  he  studied  Ar- 
menian, not  Italian,  with  them.  Padre  Girolamo 
ipeaks  perfect  Italian,  for  all  that  I  can  see  ;  but  I 
doubt  if  he  'd  undertake  to  impart  the  native  ac- 
oent,  which  is  what  you  want.  In  fact,  the  scheme 
.8  altogether  impracticable." 

44  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain  ;  c  I  'm  exceedingly 
lorry.  I  had  quite  set  my  heart  on  it.  I  never 
3 


54  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

took  such  a  fancy  to  any  one  in  such  a  short  time 
before." 

"  It  seemed  to  be  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight  on 
both  sides,"  said  Ferris.  "  Padre  Girolamo  does  n't 
shower  those  syruped  rose-leaves  indiscriminately 
upon  visitors." 

"  Thanks,"  returned  Mrs.  Vervain  ;  "  it  'a  very 
good  of  you  to  say  so,  Mr.  Ferris,  and  it's  very 
gratifying,  all  round  ;  but  don't  you  see,  it  does  n't 
serve  the  present  purpose.  What  teachers  do  y?u 
know  of?" 

She  had  been  by  marriage  so  long  in  the  seivic* 
of  the  United  States  that  she  still  regarded  iti 
agents  as  part  of  her  own  domestic  economy.  Con- 
suls she  everywhere  employed  as  functionaries  spe- 
cially appointed  to  look  after  the  interests  of  Amer- 
ican ladies  traveling  without  protection.  In  the 
week  which  had  passed  since  her  arrival  in  Venice, 
there  had  been  no  day  on  which  she  did  not  appeal 
to  Ferris  for  help  or  sympathy  or  advice.  She  took 
amiable  possession  of  him  at  once,  and  she  had  es- 
tablished an  amusing  sort  of  intimacy  with  him,  to 
which  the  haughty  trepidations  of  her  daughter  set 
certain  bounds,  but  in  which  the  demand  that  he 
should  find  her  a  suitable  Italian  teacher  seemed 
trivially  matter  of  course. 

"Yes,  I  know  several  teachers,"  he  said,  after 
thinking  awhile  ;  "  but  they  're  all  open  to  the  ol> 
{ection  of  being  human ;  and  besides,  they  all  do 
tilings  in  a  set  kind  of  way,  and  I  'in  afraid  thej 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  85 

wouldn't  enter  into  the  spirit  of  any  scheme  of 
Instruction  that  departed  very  widely  from  Ol- 
lendorff."  He  paused,  and  Mrs.  Vervain  gave  a 
sketch  of  the  different  professional  masters  whom 
she  had  employed  in  the  various  countries  of  her 
iojourn,  and  a  disquisition  upon  their  several  lives 
and  characters,  fortifying  her  statements  by  refer- 
ence of  doubtful  points  to  her  daughter.  This  oc- 
cupied some  time,  and  Ferris  listened  to  it  all  with 
an  abstracted  air.  At  last  he  said,  with  a  smile, 
"  There  was  an  Italian  priest  came  to  see  me  this 
morning,  who  astonished  me  by  knowing  English 
—  with  a  brogue  that  he  'd  learned  from  an  Eng- 
lish priest  straight  from  Dublin ;  perhaps  he  might 
do,  Mrs.  Vervain?  He's  professionally  pledged, 
you  know,  not  to  give  the  kind  of  annoyance 
you  've  suffered  from  in  teachers.  He  would  do  as 
well  as  Padre  Girolamo,  I  suppose." 

"  Do  you  really  ?    Are  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  believe  I  'm  not.  I  have  n't  the 
least  idea  he  would  do.  He  belongs  to  the  church 
militant.  He  came  to  me  with  the  model  of  a 
breech-loading  cannon  he  's  invented,  and  he  want- 
ed a  passport  to  go  to  America,  so  that  he  might 
offer  his  cannon  to  our  government." 

"How  curious!"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  her 
daughter  looked  frankly  into  Ferris's  face.  "  But 
I  know ;  it 's  one  of  your  jokes." 

44  You  overpraise  me,  Mrs.  Vervain.  If  I  could 
make  such  jokes  as  that  priest  was,  1  should  set 


86  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

up  for  a  humorist  at  once.  He  had  the  touch  of 
pathos  that  they  say  all  true  pieces  of  humor  ought 
to  have,"  he  went  on  instinctively  addressing  him- 
self to  Miss  Vervain,  who  did  not  repulse  him. 
"  He  made  me  melancholy ;  and  his  face  haunts 
me.  I  should  like  to  paint  him.  Priests  are  gen- 
erally such  a  snuffy,  common  lot.  And  I  dare 
Bay,"  he  concluded,  "  he 's  sufficiently  commonplace, 
too,  though  he  did  n't  look  it.  Spare  your  romance, 
Miss  Vervain." 

The  young  lady  blushed  resentfully.  "  I  see  as 
little  romance  as  joke  in  it,"  she  said. 

"It  was  a  cannon,"  returned  Ferris,  without 
taking  any  notice  of  her,  and  with  a  sort  of  ab- 
sent laugh,  "  that  would  make  it  very  lively  for  the 
Southerners  —  if  they  had  it.  Poor  fellow  !  I  sup- 
pose he  came  with  high  hopes  of  me,  and  expected 
me  to  receive  his  invention  with  eloquent  praises. 
I  've  no  doubt  he  figured  himself  furnished  not  only 
with  a  passport,  but  with  a  letter  from  me  to  Pres- 
ident Lincoln,  and  foresaw  his  own  triumphal  entry 
into  Washington,  and  his  honorable  interviews  with 
the  admiring  generals  of  the  Union  forces,  to  whom 
he  should  display  his  wonderful  cannon.  Too  bad  , 
is  n't  it?" 

"  And  why  did  n't  you  give  him  the  passport  and 
the  letter  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Oh,  that 's  a  state  secret,"  returned  Ferris. 

"  And    you   think    he  won't    do   for  our  pur 
pow?" 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.          87 

'« I  don't  indeed." 

"  Well,  I  'in  not  so  sure  of  it.  Tell  me  something 
more  about  him." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  more  about  him.  Be- 
sides, there  isn't  time." 

The  gondola  had  already  entered  the  canal,  and 
was  swiftly  approaching  the  hotel. 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Vervain,  lay- 
ing her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  I  want  you  to  come  in 
and  dine  with  us.  We  dine  early." 

"  Thank  you,  I  can't.  Affairs  of  the  nation, 
you  know.  Rebel  privateer  on  the  canal  of  the 
Brenta." 

"  Really  ?  "  Mrs.  Vervain  leaned  towards  Fer- 
ris for  sharper  scrutiny  of  his  face.  Her  glasses 
sprang  from  her  nose,  and  precipitated  themselves 
into  his  bosom. 

"  Allow  me,"  he  said,  with  burlesque  politeness, 
withdrawing  them  from  the  recesses  of  his  waist- 
coat and  gravely  presenting  them.  Miss  Vervain 
burst  into  a  helpless  laugh ;  then  she  turned  tow- 
ard her  mother  with  a  kind  of  indignant  tenderness, 
and  gently  arranged  her  shawl  so  that  it  should  not 
drop  off  when  she  rose  to  leave  the  gondola.  She 
did  not  look  again  at  Ferris,  who  resisted  Mrs. 
Vervain's  entreaties  to  remain,  and  took  leave  as 
*;»on  as  the  gondola  landed. 

The  ladies  went  to  their  room,  where  Florida 
lifted  from  the  table  a  vase  of  divers-colored  hya- 
cinths, and  stepping  out  upon  the  balcony  flung  the 


38  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 

flowers  into  the  canal.  As  she  put  down  the  empty 
vase,  the  lingering  perfume  of  the  banished  flowers 
haunted  the  air  of  the  room. 

"  Why,  Florida,"  said  her  mother,  "  those  were 
the  flowers  that  Mr.  Ferris  gave  you.  Did  you 
fancy  they  had  begun  to  decay?  The  smell  of 
hyacinths  when  they  're  a  little  old  is  dreadful. 
But  I  can't  imagine  a  gentleman's  giving  you  flow- 
ers that  were  at  all  old." 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't  speak  to  me ! "  cried  Miss 
Vervain,  passionately,  clasping  her  hands  to  her 
face. 

"  Now  I  see  that  I  Ve  been  saying  something  to 
vex  you,  my  darling,"  and  seating  herself  beside 
the  young  girl  on  the  sofa,  she  fondly  took  down 
her  hands.  "  Do  tell  me  what  it  was.  Was  it 
about  your  teachers  falling  in  love  with  you  ?  You 
know  they  did,  Florida :  Pestachiavi  and  Schulze, 
both  ;  and  that  horrid  old  Fleuron." 

"  Did  you  think  I  liked  any  better  on  that  ac- 
count to  have  you  talk  it  over  with  a  stranger  ?  " 
asked  Florida,  still  angrily. 

"  That 's  true,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  pen- 
itently. "  But  if  it  worried  you,  why  did  n't  you 
lo  something  to  stop  me  ?  Give  me  a  hint,  or  just 
a  little  knock,  somewhere  ?  " 

"  No,  mother  ;  I  'd  rather  not.  Then  you  'd 
lave  come  out  with  the  whole  thing,  to  prove  that 
you  were  right.  It 's  better  to  let  it  go,"  said 
Florida  with  a  fierce  laugh,  half  sob.  "  But  it  '• 


A  IOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  39 

rtrange  that  you  can't  remembei  how  such  things 
torment  me." 

"  I  suppose  it 's  my  weak  health,  dear,"  answered 
the  mother.  "  I  did  n't  use  to  be  so.  But  now  I 
don't  really  seem  to  have  the  strength  to  be  sensi- 
ble. I  know  it 's  silly  as  well  as  you.  The  tali 
just  seems  to  keep  going  on  of  itself,  —  slipping  out, 
slipping  out.  But  you  need  n't  mind.  Mr.  Ferris 
won't  think  you  could  ever  have  done  anything  out 
of  the  way.  I  'm  sure  you  don't  act  with  him  as 
if  you  'd  ever  encouraged  anybody.  I  think  you  're 
too  haughty  with  him,  Florida.  And  now,  his 
flowers." 

"  He 's  detestable.  He  's  conceited  and  presum- 
ing beyond  all  endurance.  I  don't  care  what  he 
thinks  of  me.  But  it's  his  manner  towards  you 
that  I  can't  tolerate." 

"  I  suppose  it 's  rather  free,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain* 
"  But  then  you  know,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  soon  get- 
ting to  be  an  old  lady  ;  and  besides,  I  always  feel  as 
if  consuls  were  a  kind  of  one  of  the  family.  He 's 
been  very  obliging  since  we  came  ;  I  don't  know 
what  we  should  have  done  without  him.  And  I 
ion't  object  to  a  little  ease  of  manner  in  the  gen- 
tlemen ;  I  never  did." 

"  He  makes  fun  of  you,"  cried  Florida :  "  and 
there  at  the  convent,"  she  said,  bursting  into  angry 
tears,  "  he  kept  exchanging  glances  with  that  monk 

IB  if  he He  'a  insulting,  and  I  hate 

1" 


40  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  thought  your  mothei 
ridiculous,  Florida?"  asked  Mrs.  Vervain  gravely. 
"  You  must  have  misunderstood  his  looks ;  indeed 
you  must.  I  can't  imagine  why  he  should.  I  re- 
member that  I  talked  particularly  well  during  out 
whole  visit ;  my  mind  was  active,  for  I  felt  unusu- 
ally strong,  and  I  was  interested  in  everything, 
It 's  nothing  but  a  fancy  of  yours ;  or  your  preju- 
dice, Florida.  But  it 's  odd,  now  I  Ve  sat  down 
for  a  moment,  how  worn  out  I  feel.  And  thirsty." 

Mrs.  Vervain  fitted  on  her  glasses,  but  even  then 
felt  uncertainly  about  for  the  empty  vase  on  the 
table  before  her. 

"It  isn't  a  goblet,  mother,"  said  Florida;  "I'll 
get  you  some  water." 

"  Do ;  and  then  throw  a  shawl  over  me.  I  'm 
sleepy,  and  a  nap  before  dinner  will  do  me  good. 
I  don't  see  why  I  'm  so  drowsy  of  late.  I  suppose 
it 's  getting  into  the  sea  air  here  at  Venice  ;  though 
it's  mountain  air  that  makes  you  drowsy.  But 
you  're  quite  mistaken  about  Mr.  Ferris.  He  is  n't 
capable  of  anything  really  rude.  Besides,  there 
would  n't  have  been  any  sense  in  it." 

The  young  girl  brought  the  water  and  then  knelt 
beside  the  sofa,  on  which  she  arranged  the  pillows 
under  her  mother,  and  covered  her  with  soft  wraps. 
She  laid  her  cheek  against  the  thinner  face. 
"  Don't  mind  anything  I  Ve  said,  mother ;  let ' 
talk  of  something  else." 

The  mother  drew  some  loose  threads  of    cht 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION  41 

daughter's  hair  through  her  slender  fingers,  but  said 
little  more,  and  presently  fell  into  a  deep  slumber. 
Florida  gently  lifted  her  head  away,  and  remained 
kneeling  before  the  sofa,  looking  into  the  sleeping 
face  with  an  expression  of  strenuous,  compassionate 
devotion,  mixed  with  a  vague  alarm  and  self-pity 
and  a  certain  wondering  anxiety. 


DON  IPPOLITO  had  slept  upon  his  interview  with 
Ferris,  and  now  sat  in  his  laboratory,  amidst  the 
many  witnesses  of  his  inventive  industry,  with  the 
model  of  the  breech-loading  cannon  on  the  work- 
bench before  him.  He  had  neatly  mounted  it  on 
wheels,  that  its  completeness  might  do  him  the 
greater  credit  with  the  consul  when  he  should  show 
it  him,  but  the  carriage  had  been  broken  in  hia 
pocket,  on  the  way  home,  by  an  unlucky  thrust 
from  the  burden  of  a  porter,  and  the  poor  toy  lay 
there  disabled,  as  if  to  dramatize  that  premature 
explosion  in  the  secret  chamber. 

His  heart  was  in  these  inventions  of  his,  which 
had  as  yet  so  grudgingly  repaid  his  affection.  For 
their  sake  he  had  stinted  himself  of  many  needful 
things.  The  meagre  stipend  which  he  received 
from  the  patrimony  of  his  church,  eked  out  with 
the  money  paid  him  for  baptisms,  funerals,  and 
marriages,  and  for  masses  by  people  who  had  friends 
to  be  prayed  out  of  purgatory,  would  at  best  have 
barely  sufficed  to  support  him  ;  but  he  denied  him- 
telf  everything  save  the  necessary  decorums  of  dress 
%nd  lodging ;  he  fasted  like  a  saint,  and  slept  hard 
as  a  hermit,  that  he  might  spend  upon  these  un- 
grateful creatures  oi  his  brain.  They  were  the 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  43 

work  of  his  own  hands,  and  so  he  saved  the  ex- 
pense of  their  construction  ;  but  there  were  many 
little  outlays  for  materials  and  for  tools,  which  he 
could  not  avoid,  and  with  him  a  little  was  all. 
They  not  only  famished  him ;  they  isolated  him. 
His  superiors  in  the  church,  and  his  brother  priests, 
looked  with  doubt  or  ridicule  upon  the  labors  for 
which  he  shunned  their  company,  while  he  gave  up 
the  other  social  joys,  few  and  small,  which  a  priest 
might  know  in  the  Venice  of  that  day,  when  all 
generous  spirits  regarded  him  with  suspicion  for 
his  cloth's  sake,  and  church  and  state  were  alert 
tc  detect  disaffection  or  indifference  in  him.  But 
bearing  these  things  willingly,  and  living  as  fru- 
gally as  he  might,  he  had  still  not  enough,  and  he 
had  been  fain  to  assume  the  instruction  of  a  young 
girl  of  old  and  noble  family  in  certain  branches  of 
polite  learning  which  a  young  lady  of  that  sort 
might  fitly  know.  The  family  was  not  so  rich  as 
it  was  old  and  noble,  and  Don  Ippolito  was  paid 
from  its  purse  rather  than  its  pride.  But  the  slen- 
der salary  was  a  help ;  these  patricians  were  very 
good  to  him ;  many  a  time  he  dined  with  them, 
and  so  spared  the  cost  of  his  own  pottage  at  home ; 
they  always  gave  him  coffee  when  he  came,  and 
that  was  a  saving  ;  at  the  proper  seasons  little  pres- 
ents from  them  were  not  wanting.  In  a  word,  his 
condition  was  not  privation.  He  did  his  duty  as  a 
teacher  faithfully,  and  the  only  trouble  with  it  was 
that  the  young  girl  was  growing  into  a  young 


44  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

woman,  and  that  he  could  not  go  on  teaching  hei 
forever.  In  an  evil  hour,  as  it  seemed  to  Don 
Ippolito,  that  made  the  years  she  had  been  his 
pupil  shrivel  to  a  mere  pinch  of  time,  there  came 
from  a  young  count  of  the  Friuli,  visiting  Venice, 
an  offer  of  marriage ;  and  Don  Ippolito  lost  his 
place.  It  was  hard,  but  he  bade  himself  have  pa- 
tience; and  he  composed  an  ode  for  the  nuptials  of 
his  late  pupil,  which,  together  with  a  brief  sketch 
of  her  ancestral  history,  he  had  elegantly  printed, 
according  to  the  Italian  usage,  and  distributed 
among  the  family  friends ;  he  also  made  a  sonnet 
to  the  bridegroom,  and  these  literary  tributes  were 
handsomely  acknowledged. 

He  managed  a  whole  year  upon  the  proceeds, 
and  kept  a  cheerful  spirit  till  the  last  soldo  waa 
spent,  inventing  one  thing  after  another,  and  giving 
much  time  and  money  to  a  new  principle  of  steam 
propulsion,  which,  as  applied  without  steam  to  a 
small  boat  on  the  canal  before  his  door,  failed  to 
work,  though  it  had  no  logical  excuse  for  its  delin- 
quency. He  tried  to  get  other  pupils,  but  he  got 
none,  and  he  began  to  dream  of  going  to  America. 
He  pinned  his  faith  in  all  sorts  of  magnificent  pos- 
sibilities to  the  names  of  Franklin,  Fulton,  and 
Morse ;  he  was  so  ignorant  of  our  politics  and  geog- 
raphy as  to  suppose  us  at  war  with  the  South  Amer- 
ican Spaniards,  but  he  knew  that  English  was  the 
language  of  the  North,  and  he  applied  himself  ta 
the  itudy  of  it.  Heaven  only  knows  what  kind  of 


A  FOEEGONE  CONCLUSION.  46 

inventor's  Utopia,  our  poor,  patent-ridden  country 
appeared  to  him  in  these  dreams  of  his,  and  I  can 
but  dimly  figure  it  to  myself.  But  he  might  very 
naturally  desire  to  come  to  a  land  where  the  spirit 
of  invention  is  recognized  and  fostered,  and  where 
he  could  hope  to  find  that  comfort  of  incentive  and 
companionship  which  our  artists  find  in  Italy. 

The  idea  of  the  breech-loading  cannon  had  oc- 
curred to  him  suddenly  one  day,  in  one  of  his  New- 
World- ward  reveries,  and  he  had  made  haste  to 
realize  it,  carefully  studying  the  form  and  general 
effect  of  the  Austrian  cannon  under  the  gallery  of 
the  Ducal  Palace,  to  the  high  embarrassment  of  the 
Croat  sentry  who  paced  up  and  down  there,  and 
who  did  not  feel  free  to  order  off  a  priest  as  he 
would  a  civilian.  Don  Ippolito's  model  was  of 
admirable  finish ;  he  even  painted  the  carriage  yel- 
low and  black,  because  that  of  the  original  was  so, 
and  colored  the  piece  to  look  like  brass ;  and  he  lost 
a  day  while  the  paint  was  drying,  after  he  was 
otherwise  ready  to  show  it  to  the  consul. 

He  had  parted  from  Ferris  with  some  gleams  of 
comfort,  caught  chiefly  from  his  kindly  manner,  but 
they  had  died  away  before  nightfall,  and  this  morn- 
ing he  could  not  rekindle  them. 

He  had  had  his  coffee  served  to  him  on  the 
bench,  as  his  frequent  custom  was,  but  it  stood  un- 
tasted  in  the  little  copper  pot  beside  the  dismounted 
cannon,  though  it  was  now  ten  o'clock,  and  it  was 
foil  time  he  ha<?  breakiasted,  for  he  had  risen  early 


46  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

to  perform  the  matin  service  for  three  peasant 
women,  two  beggars,  a  cat,  and  a  paralytic  noble- 
man, in  the  ancient  and  beautiful  church  to  which  he 
was  attached.  He  had  tried  to  go  about  his  wonted 
occupations,  but  he  was  still  sitting  idle  before  his 
bench,  while  his  servant  gossiped  from  her  balcony 
to  the  mistress  of  the  next  house,  across  a  calle  so 
deep  and  narrow  that  it  opened  like  a  mountain 
chasm  beneath  them.  "  It  were  well  if  the  master 
read  his  breviary  a  little  more,  instead  of  always 
maddening  himself  with  those  blessed  inventions, 
that  eat  more  soldi  than  a  Christian,  and  never 
come  to  anything.  There  he  sits  before  his  table, 
as  if  he  were  nailed  to  his  chair,  and  lets  his  coffee 
cool  —  and  God  knows  I  was  ready  to  drink  it 
warm  two  hours  ago  —  and  never  looks  at  me  if  I 
open  the  door  twenty  times  to  see  whether  he  has 
finished.  Holy  patience  I  You  have  not  even  the 
advantage  of  fasting  to  the  glory  of  God  in  this 
house,  though  you  keep  Lent  the  year  round.  It  'i 
the  Devil's  Lent,  /  say.  Eh,  Diana  I  There  goes 
the  bell.  Who  now  ?  Adieu,  Lusetta.  To  meet 
again,  dear.  Farewell  I  " 

She  ran  to  another  window,  and  admitted  the 
visitor.  It  was  Ferris,  and  she  went  to  announce 
Lim  to  her  master  by  the  title  he  had  given,  while 
he  amused  his  leisure  in  the  darkness  below  by  fall- 
ing over  a  cistern-top,  with  a  loud  clattering  of  his 
cane  on  the  copper  lid,  after  which  he  heard  the 
voice  of  the  priest  begging  him  to  remain  at  hii 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  47 

convenience  a  moment  till  he  could  descend  and 
ihow  him  the  way  up-stairs.  His  eyes  were  not 
yet  used  to  the  obscurity  of  the  narrow  entry  in 
which  he  stood,  when  he  felt  a  cold  hand  laid  on 
his,  and  passively  yielded  himself  to  its  guidance. 
He  tried  to  excuse  himself  for  intruding  upon  Don 
Ippolito  so  soon,  but  the  priest  in  far  suppler  Italian 
overwhelmed  him  with  lamentations  that  he  should 
be  so  unworthy  the  honor  done  him,  and  ushered  his 
guest  into  his  apartment.  He  plainly  took  it  for 
granted  that  Ferris  had  come  to  see  his  inventions, 
in  compliance  with  the  invitation  he  had  given  him 
the  day  before,  and  he  made  no  affectation  of  delay, 
though  after  the  excitement  of  the  greetings  was 
past,  it  was  with  a  quiet  dejection  that  he  rose  and 
offered  to  lead  his  visitor  to  his  laboratory. 

The  whole  place  was  an  outgrowth  of  himself  ; 
it  was  his  history  as  well  as  his  character.  It  re- 
corded his  quaint  and  childish  tastes,  his  restless 
endeavors,  his  partial  and  halting  successes.  The 
ante-room  in  which  he  had  paused  with  Ferris  was 
painted  to  look  like  a  grape-arbor,  where  the  vines 
sprang  from  the  floor,  and  flourishing  up  the  trel- 
lised  walls,  with  many  a  wanton  tendril  and  flaunt- 
ing leaf,  displayed  their  lavish  clusters  of  white  and 
purple  all  over  the  ceiling.  It  touched  Ferris,  when 
Don  Ippolito  confessed  that  this  decoration  had 
been  the  distraction  of  his  own  vacant  moments,  to 
find  that  it  was  like  certain  grape-arbors  he  had 
leen  in  remote  corners  of  Venice  before  the  doort 


48  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

mi 

t>t  degenerate  palaces,  or  forming  the  entrances  of 
apen-air  restaurants,  and  did  not  seem  at  all  to  have 
been  studied  from  grape-arbors  in  the  country. 
He  perceived  the  archaic  striving  for  exact  truth, 
and  he  successfully  praised  the  mechanical  skill  and 
love  of  reality  with  which  it  was  done  ;  but  he  was 
silenced  by  a  collection  of  paintings  in  Don  Ippo- 
lito's  parlor,  where  he  had  been  made  to  sit  down  a 
moment.  Hard  they  were  in  line,  fixed  in  expres- 
sion, and  opaque  in  color,  these  copies  of  famous 
masterpieces,  —  saints,  of  either  sex,  ascensions,  as- 
sumptions, martyrdoms,  and  what  not,  —  and  the^ 
were  not  quite  comprehensible  till  Don  Ippolito  ex- 
plained that  he  had  made  them  from  such  prints 
of  the  subjects  as  he  could  get,  and  had  colored 
them  after  his  own  fancy.  All  this,  in  a  city  whose 
art  had  been  the  glory  of  the  world  for  nigh  half  a 
thousand  years,  struck  Ferris  as  yet  more  comically 
pathetic  than  the  frescoed  grape-arbor ;  he  stared 
about  him  for  some  sort  of  escape  from  the  pictures, 
and  his  eye  fell  upon  a  piano  and  a  melodeon  placed 
end  to  end  in  a  right  angle.  Don  Ippolito,  seeing 
his  look  of  inquiry,  sat  down  and  briefly  played  the 
name  air  with  a  hand  upon  each  instrument. 

Ferris  smiled.  "  Don  Ippolito,  you  are  another 
Da  Vinci,  a  universal  genius." 

"Bagatelles,  bagatelles,"  said  the  priest  pen- 
lively  ;  but  he  rose  with  greater  spirit  than  he  had 
yet  shown,  and  preceded  the  consul  into  the  littl« 
room  that  served  him  for  a  smithy.  It  seemed 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  49 

from  some  peculiarities  of  shape  to  have  once  been 
an  oratory,  but  it  was  now  begrimed  with  smoke  and 
dust  from  the  forge  which  Don  Ippolito  had  set  up 
in  it ;  the  embers  of  a  recent  fire,  the  bellows,  the 
pincers,  the  hammers,  and  the  other  implements  of 
the  trade,  gave  it  a  sinister  effect,  as  if  the  place  of 
prayer  had  been  invaded  by  mocking  imps,  or  as  if 
Borne  hapless  mortal  in  contract  with  the  evil  powers 
were  here  searching,  by  the  help  of  the  adversary, 
for  the  forbidden  secrets  of  the  metals  and  of  fire. 
In  those  days,  Ferris  was  an  uncompromising  enemy 
of  the  theatricalization  of  Italy,  or  indeed  of  any- 
thing ;  but  the  fancy  of  the  black-robed  young 
priest  at  work  in  this  place  appealed  to  him  all  the 
more  potently  because  of  the  sort  of  tragic  inno- 
cence which  seemed  to  characterize  Don  Ippolito's 
expression.  He  longed  intensely  to  sketch  the 
picture  then  and  there,  but  he  had  strength  to  re- 
buke the  fancy  as  something  that  could  not  make 
itself  intelligible  without  the  help  of  such  accesso- 
ries as  he  despised,  and  he  victoriously  followed  the 
priest  into  his  larger  workshop,  where  his  inven- 
tions, complete  and  incomplete,  were  stored,  and 
where  he  had  been  seated  when  his  visitor  arrived. 
The  high  windows  and  the  frescoed  ceiling  were 
festooned  with  dusty  cobwebs ;  litter  of  shavings 
and  whittlings  strewed  the  floor ;  mechanical  im- 
plements and  contrivances  were  everywhere,  and 
Don  Ippolito's  listlessness  seemed  to  return  upon 
him  again  at  the  sight  of  the  familiar  disorder. 
4 


50  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Conspicuous  among  other  objects  lay  the  illogi- 
eally  unsuccessful  model  of  the  new  principle  (A 
iteam  propulsion,  untouched  since  the  day  when  he 
had  lifted  it  out  of  the  canal  and  carried  it  indoors 
through  the  ranks  of  grinning  spectators.  From  a 
shelf  above  it  he  took  down  models  of  a  flying- 
machine  and  a  perpetual  motion.  "  Fantastic 
researches  in  the  impossible.  I  never  expected 
results  from  these  experiments,  with  which  I 
nevertheless  once  pleased  myself,"  he  said,  and 
turned  impatiently  to  various  pieces  of  portable 
furniture,  chairs,  tables,  bedsteads,  which  by  fold- 
ing up  their  legs  and  tops  condensed  themselves 
into  flat  boxes,  developing  handles  at  the  side  for 
convenience  in  carrying.  They  were  painted  and 
varnished,  and  were  in  all  respects  complete ;  they 
had  indeed  won  favorable  mention  at  an  exposition 
of  the  Provincial  Society  of  Arts  and  Industries, 
and  Ferris  could  applaud  their  ingenuity  sincerely, 
though  he  had  his  tacit  doubts  of  their  usefulness. 
He  fell  silent  again  when  Don  Ippolito  called  his 
notice  to  a  photographic  camera,  so  contrived  with 
straps  and  springs  that  you  could  snatch  by  its  help 
whatever  joy  there  might  be  in  taking  your  own 
photograph ;  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  say  of  a 
submarine  boat,  a  four-wheeled  water-velocipede,  a 
movable  bridge,  or  the  very  many  other  principles 
and  ideas  to  which  Don  Ippolito's  cunning  hand 
bad  given  shape,  more  or  less  imperfect.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  they  all,  however  perfect  or  imperfect, 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  51 

had  some  fatal  defect :  they  were  aspirations  to- 
ward the  impossible,  or  realizations  of  the  trivial 
and  superfluous.  Yet,  for  all  this,  they  strongly 
appealed  to  the  painter  as  the  stunted  fruit  of  a 
talent  denied  opportunity,  instruction,  and  sym- 
pathy. As  he  looked  from  them  at  last  to  the 
questioning  face  of  the  priest,  and  considered  out  of 
what  disheartened  and  solitary  patience  they  must 
have  come  in  this  city,  • —  dead  hundreds  of  years  to 
all  such  endeavor,  —  he  could  not  utter  some  glib 
phrases  of  compliment  that  he  had  on  his  tongue. 
If  Don  Ippolito  had  been  taken  young,  he  might 
perhaps  have  amounted  to  something,  though  this 
was  questionable  ;  but  at  thirty  —  as  he  looked  now, 
—  with  his  undisciplined  purposes,  and  his  head  full 
of  vagaries  of  which  these  things  were  the  tangible 

witness Ferris  let  his  eyes  drop  again.     They 

fell  upon  the  ruin  of  the  breech-loading  cannon,  and 
he  said,  "  Don  Ippolito,  it 's  very  good  of  you  to 
take  the  trouble  of  showing  me  these  matters,  and  I 
hope  you  '11  pardon  the  ungrateful  return,  if  I  can- 
not offer  any  definite  opinion  of  them  now.  They 
are  rather  out  of  my  way,  I  confess.  I  wish  with 
ill  my  heart  I  could  order  an  experimental,  life-size 
copy  of  your  breech-loading  cannon  here,  for  trial 
by  my  government,  but  I  can't ;  and  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  it  was  not  altogether  the  wish  to  see  these  in- 
mentions  of  yours  that  brought  me  here  to-day." 

"  Oh,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  with  a  mortified  air, 
*  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  wearied  the  Signer  Con- 
sole." 


i>2  A  FOKEGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  Ferris  made  haste  to 
answer,  with  a  frown  at  his  own  awkwardness. 
"  But  your  speaking  English  yesterday ;  .  .  .  .  per- 
haps what  I  was  thinking  of  is  quite  foreign  to 
your  tastes  and  possibilities."  ....  He  hesitated 
with  a  look  of  perplexity,  while  Don  Ippolito  stood 
before  him  in  an  attitude  of  expectation,  pressing 
the  points  of  his  fingers  together,  and  looking  curi- 
ously into  his  face.  "  The  case  is  this,"  resumed 
Ferris  desperately.  "  There  are  two  American 
ladies,  friends  of  mine,  sojourning  in  Venice,  who 
expect  to  be  here  till  midsummer.  They  are 
mother  and  daughter,  and  the  young  lady  wants 
to  read  and  speak  Italian  with  somebody  a  few 
hours  each  day.  The  question  is  whether  it  is 
quite  out  of  your  way  or  not  to  give  her  lessons  of 
this  kind.  J  ask  it  quite  at  a  venture.  I  suppose 
no  harm  is  done,  at  any  rate,"  and  he  looked  at 
Don  Ippolito  with  apologetic  perturbation. 

"  No,"  said  the  priest,  "  there  is  no  harm.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  at  this  moment  in  a  position  to 
consider  it  a  great  favor  that  you  do  me  in  offering 
me  this  employment.  I  accept  it  with  the  greatest 
pleasure.  Oh  1  "  he  cried,  breaking  by  a  sudden 
impulse  from  the  composure  with  which  he  had 
begun  to  speak,  "  you  don't  know  what  you  do  for 
ine ;  you  lift  me  out  of  despair.  Before  you  came, 
I  had  reached  one  of  those  passes  that  seem  the  last 
bound  of  endeavor.  But  you  give  me  new  life. 
Now  I  can  go  on  with  my  experiment.  I  can  at 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION*  58 

test  my  gratitude  by  possessing  your  native  country 
of  the  weapon  I  had  designed  for  it —  I  am  sure  of 
the  principle  :  some  slight  improvement,  perhaps 
the  use  of  some  different  explosive,  would  get  over 
that  difficulty  you  suggested,"  he  said  eagerly. 
*'  Yes,  something  can  be  done.  God  bless  you,  my 
dear  little  son  —  I  mean  —  perdoni  !  —  my  dear 
Bir."  .... 

"  Wait  —  not  so  fast,"  said  Ferris  with  a  laugh, 
yet  a  little  annoyed  that  a  question  so  purely  tenta- 
tive as  his  should  have  met  at  once  such  a  definite 
response.  "  Are  you  quite  sure  you  can  do  what 
they  want  ?  "  He  unfolded  to  him,  as  fully  as  he 
understood  it,  Mrs.  Vervain's  scheme. 

Don  Ippolito  entered  into  it  with  perfect  intelli- 
gence. He  said  that  he  had  already  had  charge  of 
the  education  of  a  young  girl  of  noble  family,  and 
he  could  therefore  the  more  confidently  hope  to  be 
useful  to  this  American  lady.  A  light  of  joyful 
hope  shone  in  his  dreamy  eyes,  the  whole  man 
changed,  he  assumed  the  hospitable  and  caressing 
host.  He  conducted  Ferris  back  to  his  parlor,  and 
.naking  him  sit  upon  the  hard  sofa  that  was  his 
hard  bed  by  night,  he  summoned  his  servant,  and 
bade  her  serve  them  coffee.  She  closed  her  lips 
firmly,  and  waved  her  finger  before  her  face,  to 
signify  that  there  was  no  more  coffee.  Then  he 
bade  her  fetch  it  from  the  caff£ ;  and  he  listened 
with  a  sort  of  rapt  inattention  while  Ferris  again 
returned  to  the  subject  and  explained  that  he  had 


64  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

approached  him  without  first  informing  the  ladiea, 
and  that  he  must  regard  nothing  as  final.  It  was 
at  this  point  that  Don  Ippolito,  who  had  under- 
stood so  clearly  what  Mrs.  Vervain  wanted,  ap- 
peared a  little  slow  to  understand ;  and  Ferris  had 
a  doubt  wnether  it  was  from  subtlety  or  from  sim- 
plicity that  the  priest  seemed  not  to  comprehend 
the  impulse  on  which  he  had  acted.  He  finished 
his  coffee  in  this  perplexity,  and  when  he  rose  to  go, 
Don  Ippolito  followed  him  down  to  the  street-door, 
and  preserved  him  from  a  second  encounter  with 
the  cistern-top. 

"But,  Don  Ippolito — remember!  I  make  no 
engagement  for  the  ladies,  whom  you  must  see  be- 
fore anything  is  settled,"  said  Ferris. 

"  Surely,  —  surely  I "  answered  the  priest,  and 
he  remained  smiling  at  the  door  till  the  American 
turned  the  next  corner.  Then  he  went  back  to  hia 
work-room,  and  took  up  the  broken  model  from  the 
bench.  But  he  could  not  work  at  it  now,  he  could 
not  work  at  anything ;  he  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  floor. 

"  Could  he  really  have  been  so  stupid  because 
his  mind  was  on  his  ridiculous  cannon  ?  "  wondered 
Ferris  as  he  sauntered  frowning  away ;  and  he 
tried  to  prepare  his  own  mind  for  his  meeting  with 
tho  Vervains,  to  whom  he  must  now  go  at  once. 
He  felt  abused  and  victimized.  Yet  it  was  an 
amusing  experience,  and  he  found  himself  able  to 
interest  both  of  the  ladies  in  it.  The  younger  had 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  66 

received  him  as  coldly  as  the  forms  of  greeting 
would  allow;  but  as  he  talked  she  drew  nearer  him 
with  a  reluctant  haughtiness  which  he  noted.  He 
turned  the  more  conspicuously  towards  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain. "  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,"  he 
said,  "  I  could  n't  discourage  Don  Ippolito.  He  re- 
fused to  be  dismayed  —  as  I  should  have  been  at 
the  notion  of  teaching  Miss  Vervain.  I  did  n't  ar- 
range with  him  not  to  fall  in  love  with  her  as  hia 
secular  predecessors  have  done  —  it  seemed  super- 
fluous. But  you  can  mention  it  to  him  if  you  like. 
In  fact,"  said  Ferris,  suddenly  addressing  the 
daughter,  "  you  might  make  the  stipulation  your- 
self, Miss  Vervain." 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a  sort  of  de- 
fenseless pain  that  made  him  ashamed  ;  and  then 
walked  away  from  him  towards  the  window,  with 
a  frank  resentment  that  made  him  smile,  as  he  con- 
tinued, "  But  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  have 
some  explanation  of  my  motive  in  precipitating 
Don  Ippolito  upon  you  in  this  way,  when  I  told 
you  only  yesterday  that  he  would  n't  do  at  all ;  in 
fact  I  think  myself  that  I  've  behaved  rather  fickle- 
mindedly  —  for  a  representative  of  the  country. 
But  I  '11  tell  you  ;  and  you  won't  be  surprised  to 
learn  that  I  acted  from  mixed  motives.  I  'm  not 
at  all  sure  that  he  '11  do ;  I  've  had  awful  misgiv- 
ings at  out  it  since  I  left  him,  and  I  'in  glad  of  the 
chance  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  When  I  came 
to  think  the  matter  over  last  night,  the  fact  that  ha 


56  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

had  taught  himself  English  —  with  the  help  of  an 
Irishman  for  the  pronunciation  —  seemed  to  prom- 
ise that  he  'd  have  the  right  sort  of  sympathy  with 
your  scheme,  and  it  showed  that  he  must  have 
something  practical  about  him,  too.  And  here  'a 
where  the  selfish  admixture  comes  in.  I  didn't 
have  your  interests  solely  in  mind  when  I  went  to 
Bee  Don  Ippolito.  I  had  n't  been  able  to  get  rid  of 
him ;  he  stuck  in  my  thought.  I  fancied  he  might 
be  glad  of  the  pay  of  a  teacher,  and  —  I  had  half 
a  notion  to  ask  him  to  let  me  paint  him.  It  was 
an  even  chance  whether  I  should  try  to  secure  him 
for  Miss  Vervain,  or  for  Art  —  as  they  call  it. 
Miss  Vervain  won  because  she  could  pay  him,  and 
I  did  n't  see  how  Art  could.  I  can  bring  him  round 
any  time  ;  and  that 's  the  whole  inconsequent  busi- 
ness. My  consolation  is  that  I  've  left  you  perfectly 
free.  There  's  nothing  decided." 

"Thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain;  "then  it's  all 
settled.  You  can  bring  him  as  soon  as  you  like,  to 
our  new  place.  We  've  taken  that  apartment  we 
looked  at  the  other  day,  and  we  're  going  into  it 
this  afternoon.  Here's  the  landlord's  letter,"  she 
added,  drawing  a  paper  out  of  her  pocket.  "  If 
he  's  cheated  us,  I  suppose  you  can  see  justice  done. 
I  didn't  want  to  trouble  you  before." 

"  You  're  a  woman  of  business,  Mrs.  Vervain," 
said  Ferris.  "The  man's  a  perfect  Jew — or  a 
perfect  Christian,  one  ought  to  say  in  Venice ;  we 
true  believers  do  gouge  so  much  more  infamously 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  67 

here  —  and  you  let  him  get  you  in  black  and  white 
before  you  come  to  me.  Well,"  he  continued,  as 
He  glanced  at  the  paper,  "  you  Ve  done  it  1  He 
makes  you  pay  one  half  too  much.  However,  it  's 
cheap  enough ;  twice  as  cheap  as  your  hotel." 

"  But  I  don't  care  for  cheapness.  I  hate  to  be 
imposed  upon.  What 's  to  be  done  about  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing ;  if  he  has  your  letter  as  you  have  his. 
It 's  a  bargain,  and  you  must  stand  to  it." 

"  A  bargain  ?  Oh  nonsense,  now,  Mr.  Ferris. 
This  is  merely  a  note  of  mutual  understanding." 

"  Yes,  that 's  one  way  of  looking  at  it.  The 
Civil  Tribunal  would  call  it  a  binding  agreement 
of  the  closest  tenure,  —  if  you  want  to  go  to  law 
about  it." 

"  I  will  go  to  law  about  it." 

u  Oh  no,  you  won't  —  unless  you  mean  to  spend 
your  remaining  days  and  all  your  substance  in  Ven- 
ice. Come,  you  have  n't  done  so  badly,  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain. I  don't  call  four  rooms,  completely  furnished 
for  housekeeping,  with  that  lovely  garden,  at  all 
dear  at  eleven  francs  a  day.  Besides,  the  landlord 
is  a  man  of  excellent  feeling,  sympathetic  and 
obliging,  and  a  perfect  gentleman,  though  he  is 
Buch  an  outrageous  scoundrel.  He  '11  cheat  you,  of 
course,  in  whatever  he  can  ;  you  must  look  out  for 
that ;  but  he  '11  do  you  any  sort  of  little  neighborly 
kindness.  Good-by,"  said  Ferris,  getting  to  the 
door  before  Mrs.  Vervain  could  intercept  him. 
u  I  '11  come  to  your  now  place  this  evening  to  aea 
Uow  you  are  pleased." 


68  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Florida,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  "  this  is  outra* 
geous." 

"I  wouldn't  mind  it,  mother.  We  pay  very 
little,  after  all." 

"  Yes,  but  we  pay  too  much.  That 's  what  I 
can't  bear.  And  as  you  said  yesterday,  I  don't 
think  Mr.  Ferris's  manners  are  quite  respectful  to 
me." 

"  He  only  told  you  the  truth  ;  I  think  he  advised 
you  for  the  best.  The  matter  could  n't  be  helped 
now." 

"  But  I  call  it  a  want  of  feeling  to  speak  the 
truth  so  bluntly." 

"  We  won't  have  to  complain  of  that  in  our  land- 
lord, it  seems,"  said  Florida.  "  Perhaps  not  in  our 
priest,  either,"  she  added. 

"Yes,  that  was  kind  of  Mr.  Ferris,"  said  Mrs. 
Vervain.  "  It  was  thoroughly  thoughtful  and  con- 
siderate —  what  I  call  an  instance  of  true  delicacy. 
I  'm  really  quite  curious  to  see  him.  Don  Ippolito  ! 
How  very  odd  to  call  a  priest  Don  !  I  should  have 
aaid  Padre.  Don  always  makes  you  think  of  a 
Spanish  cavalier.  Don  Rodrigo :  something  like 
that." 

They  went  on  to  talk,  desultorily,  of  Don  Ippo- 
lito, and  what  he  might  be  like  In  speaking  of 
him  the  day  before,  Ferris  had  hinted  at  some  mys- 
terious sadness  in  him  ;  and  to  hint  of  sadness  in  a 
man  always  interests  women  in  him,  whether  they 
ire  old  or  young :  the  old  have  suffered,  the  young 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  59 

forebode  suffering.  Their  interest  in  Don  Ippolito 
had  not  been  diminished  by  what  Ferris  had  told 
them  of  his  visit  to  the  priest's  house  and  of  the 
things  he  had  seen  there ;  for  there  had  always 
been  the  same  strain  of  pity  in  his  laughing  ac- 
count, and  he  had  imparted  none  of  his  doubts  to 
them.  They  did  not  talk  as  if  it  were  strange  that 
Ferris  should  do  to-day  what  he  had  yesterday  said 
he  would  not  do ;  perhaps  as  women  they  could  not 
find  such  a  thing  strange ;  but  it  vexed  him  more 
and  more  as  he  went  about  all  afternoon  thinking 
of  his  inconsistency,  and  wondering  whether  he  bad 
not  acted  rashly. 


IV. 

THE  palace  in  which  Mrs.  Vervain  had  taken  an 
apartment  fronted  on  a  broad  campo,  and  hung  ita 
empty  marble  balconies  from  gothic  windows  above 
a  silence  scarcely  to  be  matched  elsewhere  in  Ven- 
ice. The  local  pharmacy,  the  caffS,  the  grocery, 
the  fruiterer's,  the  other  shops  with  which  every 
Venetian  campo  is  furnished,  had  each  a  certain 
life  about  it,  but  it  was  a  silent  life,  and  at  midday 
a  frowsy-headed  woman  clacking  across  the  flags  in 
her  wooden-heeled  shoes  made  echoes  whose  garrul- 
ity was  interrupted  by  no  other  sound.  In  the 
early  morning,  when  the  lid  of  the  public  cistern  in 
the  centre  of  the  campo  was  unlocked,  there  was 
a  clamor  of  voices  and  a  clangor  of  copper  vessels, 
as  the  housewives  of  the  neighborhood  and  the  lo- 
cal force  of  strong-backed  Friulan  water-girls  drew 
their  day's  supply  of  water ;  and  on  that  sort  of 
special  parochial  holiday,  called  a  sagra,  the  campo 
hummed  and  clattered  and  shrieked  with  a  multi- 
tude celebrating  the  day  around  the  stands  where 
pumpkin  seeds  and  roast  pumpkin  and  anisette- 
water  were  sold,  and  before  the  movable  kitchen 
where  cakes  were  fried  in  caldrons  of  oil,  and  up- 
roariously offered  to  the  crowd  by  the  cook,  who 
did  not  suffer  himself  to  be  embarrassed  by  the 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  61 

rival  drama  of  adjoining  puppet-shows,  but  contin- 
ued to  bellow  forth  his  bargains  all  day  long  and 
far  into  the  night,  when  the  flames  under  his  ket- 
tles painted  his  visage  a  fine  crimson.  The  sagra 
once  over,  however,  the  campo  relapsed  into  its 
aabitual  silence,  and  no  one  looking  at  the  front  of 
the  palace  would  have  thought  of  it  as  a  place  for 
distraction-seeking  foreign  sojourners.  But  it  was 
not  on  this  side  that  the  landlord  tempted  hia 
tenants  ;  his  principal  notice  of  lodgings  to  let  was 
affixed  to  the  water-gate  of  the  palace,  which  opened 
on  a  smaller  channel  so  near  the  Grand  Canal 
that  no  wandering  eye  could  fail  to  see  it.  The 
portal  was  a  tall  arch  of  Venetian  gothic  tipped 
with  a  carven  flame ;  steps  of  white  Istrian  stone 
descended  to  the  level  of  the  lowest  ebb,  irregularly 
embossed  with  barnacles,  and  dabbling  long  fringes 
of  soft  green  sea-mosses  in  the  rising  and  falling 
tide.  Swarms  of  water-bugs  and  beetles  played 
over  the  edges  of  the  steps,  and  crabs  scuttled  side- 
wise  into  deeper  water  at  the  approach  of  a  gon- 
dola. A  length  of  stone-capped  brick  wall,  to 
which  patches  of  stucco  still  clung,  stretched  from 
the  gate  on  either  hand  under  cover  of  an  ivy  that 
flung  its  mesh  of  shining  green  from  within,  where 
there  lurked  a  lovely  garden,  stately,  spacious  for 
Venice,  and  full  of  a  delicious,  half-sad  surprise  for 
tfh  so  opened  upon  it.  In  the  midst  it  had  a 
broken  fountain,  with  a  marble  naiad  standing  on 
»  shell,  and  looking  sauoier  thai)  the  sculptor 


62  A  FOREGONE  CONGLUBION. 

meant,  from  having  lost  the  point  of  her  none 
nymphs  and  fauns,  and  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
her  kinsfolk,  coquetted  in  and  out  among  the  green- 
ery in  flirtation  not  to  be  embarrassed  by  the  frac- 
ture of  an  arm,  or  the  casting  of  a  leg  or  so  ;  one 
lady  had  no  head,  but  she  was  the  boldest  of  alL 
In  this  garden  there  were  some  mulberry  and  pome- 
granate trees,  several  of  which  hung  about  the 
fountain  with  seats  in  their  shade,  and  for  the  rest 
there  seemed  to  be  mostly  roses  and  oleanders,  with 
other  shrubs  of  a  kind  that  made  the  greatest  show 
of  blossom  and  cost  the  least  for  tendance.  A  wide 
terrace  stretched  across  the  rear  of  the  palace,  drop- 
ping to  the  garden  path  by  a  flight  of  balustraded 
steps,  and  upon  this  terrace  opened  the  long  win- 
dows of  Mrs.  Vervain's  parlor  and  dining-room. 
Her  landlord  owned  only  the  first  story  and  the 
basement  of  the  palace,  in  some  corner  of  which  he 
cowered  with  his  servants,  his  taste  for  pictures  and 
bric-d-brac,  and  his  little  branch  of  inquiry  into 
Venetian  history,  whatever  it  was,  ready  to  let 
himself  or  anything  he  had  for  hire  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice,  but  very  pleasant,  gentle,  and  un- 
obtrusive ;  a  cheat  and  a  liar,  but  of  a  kind  heart 
and  sympathetic  manners.  Under  his  protection 
Mrs.  Vervain  set  up  her  impermanent  household 
gods.  The  apartment  was  taken  only  from  week 
to  week,  and  as  she  freely  explained  to  the  pa- 
drone hovering  about  with  offers  of  service,  aha 
knew  herself  too  well  ever  to  unpack  anything  that 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  68 

would  not  spoil  by  remaining  packed.  She  made 
her  trunks  yield  all  the  appliances  necessary  for 
an  invalid's  comfort,  and  then  left  them  in  a 
state  to  be  strapped  and  transported  to  the  station 
within  half  a  day  after  the  desire  of  change  or  the 
exigencies  of  her  feeble  health  caused  her  going. 
Everything  for  housekeeping  was  furnished  with 
the  rooms.  There  was  a  gondolier  and  a  sort  of 
house-servant  in  the  employ  of  the  landlord,  of 
whom  Mrs.  Vervain  hired  them,  and  she  caressingly 
dismissed  the  padrone  at  an  early  moment  after  her 
arrival,  with  the  charge  to  find  a  maid  for  herself 
and  daughter.  As  if  she  had  been  waiting  at  the 
next  door  this  maid  appeared  promptly,  and  be- 
ing Venetian,  and  in  domestic  service,  her  name 
was  of  course  Nina.  Mrs.  Vervain  now  said  to 
Florida  that  everything  was  perfect,  and  content- 
edly began  her  life  in  Venice  by  telling  Mr.  Ferris, 
when  he  came  in  the  evening,  that  he  could  bring 
Don  Ippolito  the  day  after  the  morrow,  if  he  liked. 
She  and  Florida  sat  on  the  terrace  waiting  for 
<hem  on  the  morning  named,  when  Ferris,  with  the 
priest  in  his  clerical  best,  came  up  the  garden  path 
in  the  sunny  light.  Don  Ippolito's  best  was  a  little 
poverty-stricken ;  he  had  faltered  a  while,  beiore 
leaving  home,  over  the  sad  choice  between  a  shabby 
cylinder  hat  of  obsolete  fashion  and  his  well-worn 
three-cornered  priestly  beaver,  and  had  at  last  put 
»n  the  latter  with  a  sigh.  He  had  made  his  ser- 
rant  polish  the  buckles  of  his  shoes,  and  instead  of 


64  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

a  band  of  linen  round  his  throat,  he  wore  a  strip  ol 
cloth  covered  with  small  white  beads,  edged  above 
and  below  with  a  single  row  of  pale  blue  ones. 

As  he  mounted  the  steps  with  Ferris,  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain came  forward  a  little  to  meet  them,  while 
Florida  rose  and  stood  beside  her  chair  in  a  sort  of 
proud  suspense  and  timidity.  The  elder  lady  was 
in  that  black  from  which  she  had  so  seldom  been 
able  to  escape ;  but  the  daughter  wore  a  dress  of 
delicate  green,  in  which  she  seemed  a  part  of  the 
young  season  that  everywhere  clothed  itself  in  the 
same  tint.  The  sunlight  fell  upon  her  blonde 
hair,  melting  into  its  light  gold ;  her  level  browe 
frowned  somewhat  with  the  glance  of  scrutiny 
which  she  gave  the  dark  young  priest,  who  was 
making  his  stately  bow  to  her  mother,  and  trying 
to  answer  her  English  greetings  in  the  same  tongue. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  Don 
Ippolito  made  another  low  bow,  and  then  looked  at 
the  girl  with  a  sort  of  frank  and  melancholy  won- 
der, as  she  turned  and  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
Ferris,  who  was  assailing  her  seriousness  and  hau- 
teur with  unabashed  levity  of  compliment.  A  quick 
light  flashed  and  fled  in  her  cheek  as  she  talked, 
and  the  fringes  of  her  serious,  asking  eyes  swept 
slowly  up  and  down  as  she  bent  them  upon  him  a 
moment  before  she  broke  abruptly,  not  coquettishly, 
iway  from  him,  and  moved  towards  her  mother, 
«rhile  Ferris  walked  off  to  the  other  end  of  the  ter- 
race, with  a  laugh.  Mrs.  Vervain  and  the  prieai 


A  FOBEGONE  CONCLUSION.  66 

were  trying  each  other  in  French,  and  not  making 
greaf  advance  ;  he  explained  to  Florida  in  Italian, 
and  she  answered  him  hesitatingly ;  whereupon  he 
praised  her  Italian  in  set  phrase. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl  sincerely,  "  I  haye 
tried  to  learn.  I  hope,"  she  added  as  before,  "  you 
can  make  me  see  how  little  I  know."  The  depre- 
cating wave  of  the  hand  with  which  Don  Ippolito 
appealed  to  her  from  herself,  seemed  arrested  mid- 
way by  his  perception  of  some  novel  quality  in  her. 
He  said  gravely  that  he  should  try  to  be  of  use,  and 
then  the  two  stood  silent. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Ferris,"  called  out  Mrs.  Vervain, 
"  breakfast  is  ready,  and  I  want  you  to  take  me 
in." 

"  Too  much  honor,"  said  the  painter,  coming  for- 
ward and  offering  his  arm,  and  Mrs.  Vervain  led 
the  way  indoors. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  taken  Don  Ippolito's 
arm,"  she  confided  in  under-tone,  "  but  the  fact  is, 
our  French  is  so  unlike  that  we  don't  understand 
each  other  very  well." 

"  Oh,"  returned  Ferris,  "  I  've  known  Italians  and 
Americans  whom  Frenchmen  themselves  couldn't 
understand." 

"  You  see  it 's  an  American  breakfast,"  said  Mrs. 
Vervain  with  a  critical  glance  at  the  table  before 
•he  sat  down.  "  All  but  hot  bread ;  that  you  can't 
Have,"  and  Don  Ippolito  was  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  confronted  by  a  breakfast  of  hot  beef-steak 

i 


66  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

eggs  and  toast,  fried  potatoes,  and  coffee  with  milk, 
with  a  choice  of  tea.  He  subdued  all  signs  of  the 
wonder  he  must  have  felt,  and  beyond  cutting  his 
meat  into  little  bits  before  eating  it,  did  nothing  to 
betray  his  strangeness  to  the  feast. 

The  breakfast  had  passed  off  very  pleasantly, 
with  occasional  lapses.  "  We  break  down  under 
the  burden  of  so  many  languages,"  said  Ferris.  "  It 
is  an  embarras  de  richesses.  Let  us  fix  upon  a  com- 
mon maccheronic.  May  I  trouble  you  for  a  poco 
piti  di  sugar  dans  mon  cafe*,  Mrs.  Vervain  ?  What 
do  you  think  of  the  bellazza  de  ce  weather  magni- 
fique,  Don  Ippolito  ?  " 

"  How  ridiculous !  "  said  Mrs.  Vervain  in  a  tone 
of  fond  admiration  aside  to  Don  Ippolito,  who 
smiled,  but  shrank  from  contributing  to  the  new 
tongue. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  the  painter.  "  I  shall 
stick  to  my  native  Bergamask  for  the  future  ;  and 
Don  Ippolito  may  translate  for  the  foreign  ladies." 

He  ended  by  speaking  English  with  everybody  ; 
Don  Ippolito  eked  out  his  speeches  to  Mrs.  Vervain 
in  that  tongue  with  a  little  French ;  Florida,  con- 
scious of  Ferris's  ironical  observance,  used  an  em- 
barrassed but  defiant  Italian  with  the  priest. 

"  I  'm  so  pleased ! "  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  rising 
when  Ferris  said  that  he  must  go,  and  Florida 
ihook  hands  with  both  guests. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Vervain ;  I  could  have  gon« 
before,  if  I  'd  thought  you  would  have  liked  it,*'  ai> 
iwered  the  painter. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  67 

"  Oh  nonsense,  now,"  returned  the  lady.  "  You 
know  what  I  mean.  I  'm  perfectly  delighted  with 
him,"  she  continued,  getting  Ferris  to  one  side, 
"  and  I  know  he  must  have  a  good  accent.  So  very 
kind  of  you.  Will  you  arrange  with  him  about  the 
pay  ?  —  such  a  shame  !  Thanks.  Then  I  need  n't 
Bay  anything  to  him  about  that.  I  'm  so  glad  I  had 
him  to  breakfast  the  first  day ;  though  Florida 
thought  not.  Of  course,  one  needn't  keep  it 
up.  But  seriously,  it  isn't  an  ordinary  case,  you 
know." 

Ferris  laughed  at  her  with  a  sort  of  affection- 
ate disrespect,  and  said  good-by.  Don  Ippolito  lin- 
gered for  a  while  to  talk  over  the  proposed  lessons, 
and  then  went,  after  more  elaborate  adieux.  Mrs. 
Vervain  remained  thoughtful  a  moment  before  she 
said :  — 

"  That  was  rather  droll,  Florida." 

"  What,  mother  ?  " 

"  His  cutting  his  meat  into  small  bites,  before  he 
began  to  eat.  But  perhaps  it 's  the  Venetian  cus- 
tom. At  any  rate,  my  dear,  he  's  a  gentleman  in 
virtue  of  his  profession,  and  I  could  n't  do  less  than 
ask  him  to  breakfast.  He  has  beautiful  manners; 
and  if  he  must  take  snuff,  I  suppose  it 's  neater  to 
carry  two  handkerchiefs,  though  it  does  look  odd. 
I  wish  he  would  n't  take  snuff." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  need  care,  mother.  At  any 
fate,  we  cannot  help  it." 

**  That 's  true,  my  dear.     And  his  nails.     No* 


68  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

when  they  're  spread  out  on  a  book,  you  know,  to 
keep  it  open,  won't  it  be  unpleasant  ?  " 

"  They  seem  to  have  just  such  fingernails  all  over 
Europe  —  except  in  England." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  know  it.  I  dare  say  we  should  n't 
care  for  it  in  him,  if  he  did  n't  seem  so  very  nioe 
otherwise.  How  handsome  he  is  I  " 


V. 

IT  was  understood  that  Don  Ippolito  should  come 
every  morning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  read  and  talk 
with  Miss  Vervain  for  an  hour  or  two ;  but  Mrs. 
Vervain's  hospitality  was  too  aggressive  for  the  let- 
ter of  the  agreement.  She  oftener  had  him  to 
breakfast  at  nine,  for,  as  she  explained  to  Ferris, 
she  could  not  endure  to  have  him  feel  that  it  was 
a  mere  mercenary  transaction,  and  there  was  no 
limit  fixed  for  the  lessons  on  these  days.  When 
she  could,  she  had  Ferris  come,  too,  and  she  missed 
him  when  he  did  not  come.  "  I  like  that  bluntness 
of  his,"  she  professed  to  her  daughter,  "  and  I  don't 
mind  his  making  light  of  me.  You  are  so  apt  to 
be  heavy  if  you  're  not  made  light  of  occasionally. 
I  certainly  should  n't  want  a  son  to  be  so  respectful 
and  obedient  as  you  are,  my  dear." 

The  painter  honestly  returned  her  fondness,  and 
with  not  much  greater  reason.  He  saw  that  she 
took  pleasure  in  his  talk,  and  enjoyed  it  even  when 
she  did  not  understand  it ;  and  this  is  a  kind  of 
flattery  not  easy  to  resist.  Besides,  there  was  very 
little  ladies'  society  in  Venice  in  those  times,  and 
Ferris,  after  trying  the  little  he  could  get  at,  had 
gladly  denied  himself  its  pleasures,  and  consorted 
with  the  young  men  he  met  at  the  caff&s,  or  in  tbt 


TO  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Piazza.  But  when  the  Vervains  came,  they  re- 
called to  him  the  younger  days  in  which  he  had  de- 
lighted in  the  companionship  of  women.  After  so 
long  disuse,  it  was  charming  to  be  with  a  beautiful 
girl  who  neither  regarded  him  with  distrust  nor  ex- 
pected him  to  ask  her  in  marriage  because  he  sat 
alone  with  her,  rode  out  with  her  in  a  gondola, 
walked  with  her,  read  with  her.  All  young  men 
like  a  house  in  which  no  ado  is  made  about  their 
e  lining  and  going,  and  Mrs.  Vervain  perfectly  un- 
derstood the  art  of  letting  him  make  himself  at 
home.  He  perceived  with  amusement  that  thia 
amiable  lady,  who  never  did  an  ungraceful  thing 
nor  wittingly  said  an  ungracious  one,  was  very 
much  of  a  Bohemian  at  heart,  —  the  gentlest  and 
most  blameless  of  the  tribe,  but  still  lawless,  — 
whether  from  her  campaigning  married  life,  or  the 
rovings  of  her  widowhood,  or  by  natural  disposi- 
tion; and  that  Miss  Vervain  was  inclined  to  be 
conventionally  strict,  but  with  her  irregular  training 
was  at  a  loss  for  rules  by  which  to  check  her  moth- 
er's little  waywardnesses.  Her  anxious  perplexity, 
at  times,  together  with  her  heroic  obedience  and 
unswerving  loyalty  to  her  mother  had  something 
pathetic  as  well  as  amusing  in  it.  He  saw  her  tried 
almost  to  tears  by  her  mother's  helpless  frankness, 
—  for  Mrs.  Vervain  was  apparently  one  of  those 
ladies  whom  the  intolerable  surprise  of  having  any- 
thing come  into  their  heads  causes  instantly  to  say 
00  do  it, —  and  he  observed  that  she  never  tried  to 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  Tl 

pass  off  her  endurance  with  any  feminine  arts ;  but 
seemed  to  defy  him  to  think  what  he  would  of  it. 
Perhaps  she  was  not  able  to  do  otherwise:  he 
thought  of  her  at  times  as  a  person  wholly  aban- 
doned to  the  truth.  Her  pride  was  on  the  alert 
against  him ;  she  may  have  imagined  that  he  was 
covertly  smiling  at  her,  and  she  no  doubt  tasted  the 
ironical  flavor  of  much  of  his  talk  and  behavior, 
for  in  those  days  he  liked  to  qualify  his  devotion 
to  the  Vervains  with  a  certain  nonchalant  slight, 
which,  while  the  mother  openly  enjoyed  it,  filled 
the  daughter  with  anger  and  apprehension.  Quite 
at  random,  she  visited  points  of  his  informal  man- 
ner with  unmeasured  reprisal ;  others,  for  which  he 
might  have  blamed  himself,  she  passed  over  with 
strange  caprice.  Sometimes  this  attitude  of  hers 
provoked  him,  and  sometimes  it  disarmed  him  ;  but 
whether  they  were  at  feud,  or  keeping  an  armed 
truce,  or,  as  now  and  then  happened,  were  in  an 
entente  cordiale  which  he  found  very  charming,  the 
thing  that  he  always  contrived  to  treat  with  silent 
respect  and  forbearance  in  Miss  Vervain  was  that 
sort  of  aggressive  tenderness  with  which  she  has- 
tened to  shield  the  foibles  of  her  mother.  That 
was  something  very  good  in  her  pride,  he  finally  de- 
cided. At  the  same  time,  he  did  not  pretend  to 
understand  the  curious  filial  self-sacrifice  which  it 
Involved. 

Another  thing  in  her  that  puzzled  him  was  hei 
ievoutness.     Mrs.  Vervain  could  with  difficulty  be 


72  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

got  to  church,  but  her  daughter  missed  no  service 
of  the  English  ritual  in  the  old  palace  where  the 
British  and  American  tourists  assembled  once  a 
week  with  their  guide-books  in  one  pocket  and  their 
prayer-books  in  the  other,  and  buried  the  tomahawk 
under  the  altar.  Mr.  Ferris  was  often  sent  with 
her;  and  then  his  thoughts,  which  were  a  young 
man's,  wandered  from  the  service  to  the  beautiful 
girl  at  his  side,  —  the  golden  head  that  punctiliously 
bowed  itself  at  the  proper  places  in  the  liturgy: 
the  full  lips  that  murmured  the  responses ;  the 
silken  lashes  that  swept  her  pale  cheeks  as  she  pe- 
rused the  morning  lesson.  He  knew  that  the  Ver- 
vains were  not  Episcopalians  when  at  home,  for 
Mrs.  Vervain  had  told  him  so,  and  that  Florida 
went  to  the  English  service  because  there  was  no 
other.  He  conjectured  that  perhaps  her  touch  of 
ritualism  came  from  mere  love  of  any  form  she 
could  make  sure  of. 

The  servants  in  Mrs.  Vervain's  lightly  ordered 
household,  with  the  sympathetic  quickness  of  the 
Italians,  learned  to  use  him  as  the  next  friend  of 
the  family,  and  though  they  may  have  had  their 
decorous  surprise  at  his  untrammeled  footing,  they 
probably  excused  the  whole  relation  as  a  phase  of 
that  foreign  eccentricity  to  which  their  nation  is  so 
amiable.  If  they  were  not  able  to  cast  the  same 
mantle  of  charity  over  Don  Ippolito's  allegiance, 
—  and  doubtless  they  had  their  reserves  concerning 
inch  franklv  familiar  treatment  of  so  dubious  9 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  73 

character  as  priest,  —  still  as  a  priest  they  stood 
somewhat  in  awe  of  him ;  they  had  the  spontane- 
ous loyalty  of  their  race  to  the  people  they  served, 
and  they  never  intimated  by  a  look  that  they  found 
it  strange  when  Don  Ippolito  freely  came  and  went. 
Mrs.  Vervain  had  quite  adopted  him  into  her  fam- 
ily ;  while  her  daughter  seemed  more  at  ease  with 
him  than  with  Ferris,  and  treated  him  with  a  grave 
politeness  which  had  something  also  of  compassion 
and  of  child-like  reverence  in  it.  Ferris  observed 
that  she  was  always  particularly  careful  of  his  sup- 
posable  sensibilities  as  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  that 
the  priest  was  oddly  indifferent  to  this  deference,  as 
if  it  would  have  mattered  very  little  to  him  whether 
his  church  was  spared  or  not.  He  had  a  way  of 
lightly  avoiding,  Ferris  fancied,  not  only  religious 
points  on  which  they  could  disagree,  but  all  phases 
of  religion  as  matters  of  indifference.  At  such 
times  Miss  Vervain  relaxed  her  reverential  attitude, 
and  used  him  with  something  like  rebuke,  as  if  it 
did  not  please  her  to  have  the  representative  of  even 
an  alien  religion  slight  his  office  ;  as  if  her  respect 
were  for  his  priesthood  and  her  compassion  for  him 
personally.  That  was  rather  hard  for  Don  Ippolito. 
Ferris  thought,  and  waited  to  see  him  snubbed  out- 
right some  day,  when  he  should  behave  without  suf- 
ficient gravity. 

The  blossoms  came  and  went  upon  the  pome- 
granate and  almond  trees  in  the  garden,  and  some 
ti  the  earliest  roses  were  in  their  prime;  every- 


74  4   FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

where  was  so  full  leaf  that  the  wantonest  of  the 
strutting  nymphs  was  forced  into  a  sort  of  decent 
geclusion,  but  the  careless  naiad  of  the  fountain 
burnt  in  sunlight  that  subtly  increased  its  fervors 
day  by  day,  and  it  was  no  longer  beginning  to  be 
warm,  it  was  warm,  when  one  morning  Ferris  and 
Miss  Vervain  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  terrace,  wait- 
ing for  Don  Ippolito  to  join  them  at  breakfast. 

By  this  time  the  painter  was  well  on  with  the 
picture  of  Don  Ippolito  which  the  first  sight  of  the 
priest  had  given  him  a  longing  to  paint,  and  he  had 
been  just  now  talking  of  it  with  Miss  Vervain. 

"  But  why  do  you  paint  him  simply  as  a  priest  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  I  should  think  you  would  want  to 
make  him  the  centre  of  some  famous  or  romantio 
scene,"  she  added,  gravely  looking  into  his  eyes  as 
he  sat  with  his  head  thrown  back  against  the  balus- 
trade. 

"  No,  I  doubt  if  you  think,"  answered  Ferris, 
"  or  you  'd  see  that  a  Venetian  priest  does  n't  need 
any  tawdry  accessories.  What  do  you  want  ? 
Somebody  administering  the  extreme  unction  to  a 
victim  of  the  Council  of  Ten  ?  A  priest  stepping 
into  a  confessional  at  the  Frari  —  tomb  of  Canova 
in  the  distance,  perspective  of  one  of  the  naves,  and 
BC  forth  —  with  his  eye  on  a  pretty  devotee  coming 
up  to  unburden  her  conscience  ?  I  Ve  no  patience 
with  the  follies  people  think  and  say  about  Ven« 
Ice!" 

Florida  stared  in  haughty  question  at  the  painter 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  75 

"  You  're  no  worse  than  the  rest,"  he  continued 
with  indifference  to  her  anger  at  his  bluntness. 
"  You  all  think  that  there  can  be  no  picture  of  Ven- 
ice without  a  gondola  or  a  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  it. 
Have  you  ever  read  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  or 
Othello?  There  isn't  a  boat  nor  a  bridge  nor  a 
canal  mentioned  in  either  of  them ;  and  yet  they 
breathe  and  pulsate  with  the  very  life  of  Venice. 
I  'm  going  to  try  to  paint  a  Venetian  priest  so  that 
you  '11  know  him  without  a  bit  of  conventional  Ven- 
ice near  him." 

"  It  was  Shakespeare  who  wrote  those  plays," 
said  Florida.  Ferris  bowed  in  mock  suffering  from 
her  sarcasm.  "  You  'd  better  have  some  sort  of 
symbol  in  your  picture  of  a  Venetian  priest,  or 
people  will  wonder  why  you  came  so  far  to  paint 
Father  O'Brien." 

"  I  don't  say  I  shall  succeed,"  Ferris  answered. 
"  In  fact  I  Ve  made  one  failure  already,  and  I  'm 
pretty  well  on  with  a  second;  but  the  principle 
is  right,  all  the  same.  I  don't  expect  everybody  to 
Bee  the  difference  between  Don  Ippolito  and  Father 
O'Brien.  At  any  rate,  what  I  *m  going  to  paint  at 
is  the  lingering  pagan  in  the  man,  the  renunciation 
first  of  the  inherited  nature,  and  then  of  a  person- 
ality that  would  have  en]oyed  the  world.  I  want 
to  show  that  baffled  aspiration,  apathetic  despair, 
and  rebellious  longing  which  you  eaten  in  his  face 
when  he 's  off  his  guard,  and  that  suppressed  look 
which  is  the  characteristic  expression  of  all  Austria* 


76  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Venice.  Then,"  said  Ferris  laughing,  "  I  must 
work  in  that  small  suspicion  of  Jesuit  which  there 
is  in  every  priest.  But  it's  quite  possible  1  may 
make  a  Father  O'Brien  of  him." 

"  You  won't  make  a  Don  Ippolito  of  him,"  said 
Florida,  after  serious  consideration  of  his  face  tu  see 
whether  he  was  quite  in  earnest,  "  if  you  put  all 
that  into  him.  He  has  the  simplest  and  openest 
look  in  the  world,"  she  added  warmly,  "  and  there  'a 
neither  pagan,  nor  martyr,  nor  rebel  in  it." 

Ferris  laughed  again.  "  Excuse  me ;  I  don't 
think  you  know.  I  can  convince  you."  .... 

Florida  rose,  and  looking  down  the  garden  path 
said,  "  He  's  coming  ;  "  and  as  Don  Ippolito  drew 
near,  his  face  lighting  up  with  a  joyous  and  inno- 
cent smile,  she  continued  absently,  "he's  got  on 
new  stockings,  and  a  different  coat  and  hat." 

The  stockings  were  indeed  new  and  the  hat  was 
not  the  accustomed  nicchio,  but  a  new  silk  cylinder 
with  a  very  worldly,  curling  brim.  Don  Ippolito's 
coat,  also,  was  of  a  more  mundane  cut  than  the 
talare ;  he  wore  a  waistcoat  and  small-clothes,  meet- 
ing the  stockings  at  the  knee  with  a  sprightly 
buckle.  His  person  showed  no  traces  of  the  snuff 
with  which  it  used  to  be  so  plentifully  dusted ;  in 
Cact,  he  no  longer  took  snuff  in  the  presence  of  th<* 
iadies.  The  first  week  he  had  notad  an  inexplica- 
ble uneasiness  in  them  when  he  drew  forth  that 
blue  cotton  handkerchief  after  the  solace  of  a  pinch 
shortly  afterwards,  being  alone  with  Florida,  hi 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  77 

aaw  her  give  a  nervous  start  at  its  appearance- 
He  blushed  violently,  and  put  it  back  into  the 
pocket  from  which  he  had  half  drawn  it,  and  whence 
it  never  emerged  again  in  her  presence.  The  con- 
tessina  his  former  pupil  had  not  shown  any  aversion 
to  Don  Ippolito's  snuff  or  his  blue  handkerchief; 
but  then  the  contessina  had  never  rebuked  his  fin- 
ger-nails by  the  tints  of  rose  and  ivory  with  which 
Miss  Vervain's  hands  bewildered  him.  It  was  a 
little  droll  how  anxiously  he  studied  the  ways  of 
these  Americans,  and  conformed  to  them  as  far  as 
he  knew.  His  English  grew  rapidly  in  their  so- 
ciety, and  it  happened  sometimes  that  the  only  Ital- 
ian in  the  day's  lesson  was  what  he  read  with  Flor- 
ida, for  she  always  yielded  to  her  mother's  wish  to 
talk,  and  Mrs.  Vervain  preferred  the  ease  of  her 
native  tongue.  He  was  Americanizing  in  that  good 
lady's  hands  as  fast  as  she  could  transform  him,  and 
he  listened  to  her  with  trustful  reverence,  as  to  a 
woman  of  striking  though  eccentric  mind.  Yet  he 
seemed  finally  to  refer  every  point  to  Florida,  as  if 
with  an  intuition  of  steadier  and  stronger  character 
in  her ;  and  now,  as  he  ascended  the  terrace  steps 
in  his  modified  costume,  he  looked  intently  at  her. 
She  swept  him  from  head  to  foot  with  a  glance,  and 
fchen  gravely  welcomed  him  with  unchanged  coun- 
tenance. 

At  the  same  moment  Mrs.  Vervain  came  out 
through  one  of  the  long  windows,  and  adjusting 
Ver  glasses,  said  with  a  start,  "  Why,  my  dear 
Ippolito,  I  should  n't  have  known  you  I  " 


T8  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.      . 

"  Indeed,  madama  ? "  asked  the  priest  with  a 
painful  smile.  "Is  it  so  great  a  change ?  We  can 
wear  this  dress  as  well  as  the  other,  if  we  please." 

"  Why,  of  course  it 's  very  becoming  and  all  that ; 
but  it  does  look  so  out  of  character,"  Mrs.  Vervain 
said,  leading  the  way  to  the  breakfast-room.  u  It  *s 
like  seeing  a  military  man  in  a  civil  coat." 

"  It  must  be  a  great  relief  to  lay  aside  the  uni- 
form now  and  then,  mother,"  said  Florida,  as  they 
eat  down.  "  I  can  remember  that  papa  used  to  be 
glad  to  get  out  of  his." 

"  Perfectly  wild,"  assented  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  But 
he  never  seemed  the  same  person.  Soldiers  and  — 
clergymen  —  are  so  much  more  stylish  in  their  own 
dress  —  not  stylish,  exactly,  but  taking ;  don't  you 
know  ?  " 

"There,  Don  Ippolito,"  interposed  Ferris,  "you 
had  better  put  on  your  talare  and  your  nicchio 
again.  Your  abbate's  dress  isn't  acceptable,  you 
see." 

The  painter  spoke  in  Italian,  but  Don  Ippolito 
answered  —  with  certain  blunders  which  it  would 
be  tedious  to  reproduce  —  in  his  patient,  conscien- 
tious English,  half  sadly,  half  playfully,  and  glan- 
cing at  Florida,  before  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Vervain, 
"  You  are  as  rigid  as  the  rest  of  the  world,  madama. 
I  thought  you  would  like  this  dress,  but  it  seems 
that  you  think  it  a  masquerade.  As  madamigella 
jays,  it  is  a  relief  to  lay  aside  the  uniform,  now  and 
then,  for  us  who  fight  the  spiritual  enemies  as  wel 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  79 

is  for  the  other  soldiers.  There  was  one  time, 
when  I  was  younger  and  in  the  subdiaconate  orders, 
that  I  put  off  the  priest's  dress  altogether,  and  wore 
citizen's  clothes,  not  an  abbate's  suit  like  this.  We 
were  in  Padua,  another  young  priest  and  I,  my 
nearest  and  only  friend,  and  for  a  whole  night  we 
walked  about  the  streets  in  that  dress,  meeting  the 
students,  as  they  strolled  singing  through  the  moon- 
light ;  we  went  to  the  theatre  and  to  the  caffd,  —  we 
smoked  cigars,  all  the  time  laughing  and  trembling 
to  think  of  the  tonsure  under  our  hats.  But  in  the 
morning  we  ha  1  to  put  on  the  stockings  and  the 
talare  and  the  nicchio  again." 

Don  Ippolito  gave  a  melancholy  laugh.  He  had 
thrust  the  corner  of  his  napkin  into  his  collar  ;  see- 
ing that  Ferris  had  not  his  so,  he  twitched  it  out, 
and  made  a  feint  of  its  having  been  all  the  time  in 
his  lap.  Every  one  was  silent  as  if  something 
shocking  had  been  said  ;  Florida  looked  with  grave 
rebuke  at  Don  Ippolito,  whose  story  affected  Fer- 
iis  like  that  of  some  girl's  adventure  in  men's 
clothes.  He  was  hi  terror  lest  Mrs.  Vervain  should 
be  going  to  say  it  was  like  that ;  she  was  going  to 
say  something  ;  he  made  haste  to  forestall  her,  and 
turn  the  talk  on  other  things. 

The  next  day  the  priest  came  in  his  usual  drew, 
And  he  did  not  again  try  to  escape  from  it. 


VL 


ONE  afternoon,  as  Don  Ippolito  was  posing  te 
Karris  for  his  picture  of  A  Venetian  Priest,  the 
painter  asked,  to  make  talk,  "  Have  you  hit  upon 
that  new  explosive  yet,  which  is  to  utilize  your 
breech-loading  cannon  ?  Or  are  you  engaged  upon 
something  altogether  new  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  other  uneasily,  "  I  have  not 
touched  the  cannon  since  that  day  you  saw  it  at  my 
house ;  and  as  for  other  things,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  put  my  mind  to  them.    I  have  made  a  few  trifles 
which  I  have  ventured  to  offer  the  ladies." 

Ferris  had  noticed  the  ingenious  reading-desk 
which  Don  Ippolito  had  presented  to  Florida,  and 
the  footstool,  contrived  with  springs  and  hinges  so 
that  it  would  fold  up  into  the  compass  of  an  ordi- 
nary portfolio,  which  Mrs.  Vervain  carried  about 
with  her. 

An  odd  look,  which  the  painter  caught  at  and 
missed,  came  into  the  priest's  face,  as  he  resumed : 
"  I  suppose  it  is  the  distraction  of  my  new  occu- 
pation, and  of  the  new  acquaintances  —  so  very 
strange  to  me  in  every  way  —  that  I  have  made  in 
your  amiable  country-women,  which  hinders  mr 
from  going  about  anything  in  earnest,  now  that 
their  munifioince  has  enabled  me  to  pursue  my  aimi 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  81 

with  greater  advantages  than  ever  before.  But 
this  idle  mood  will  pass,  and  in  the  mean  time  I  am 
very  happy.  They  are  real  angels,  and  madaina  ia 
a  true  original."  * 

"  Mrs.  Vervain  is  rather  peculiar,"  said  the 
painter,  retiring  a  few  paces  from  his  picture,  and 
quizzing  it  through  his  half-closed  eyes.  "  She  is  a 
woman  who  has  had  affliction  enough  to  turn  a 
stronger  head  than  hers  could  ever  have  been,"  he 
added  kindly.  "  But  she  has  the  best  heart  in  the 
world.  In  fact,"  he  burst  forth,  "  she  is  the  most 
extraordinary  combination  of  perfect  fool  and  per- 
fect lady  I  ever  saw." 

"  Excuse  me  ;  I  don't  understand,"  blankly  fai 
tered  Don  Ippolito. 

"  No ;  and  I  'm  afraid  I  could  n't  explain  to 
you,"  answered  Ferris. 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  time,  broken  at  last  by 
Don  Ippolito,  who  asked,  "  Why  do  you  not  marry 
madamigella  ?  " 

He  seemed  not  to  feel  that  there  was  anything 
out  of  the  way  in  the  question,  and  Ferris  was  too 
veil  used  to  the  childlike  directness  of  the  most 
maneuvering  of  races  to  be  surprised.  Yet  he  was 
displeased,  as  he  would  not  have  been  if  Don  Ippo  • 
lito  were  not  a  priest.  He  was  not  of  the  type  of 
priests  whom  the  American  knew  from  the  preju- 
dice and  distrust  of  the  Italians ;  he  was  alienated 
from  his  clerical  fellows  by  all  the  objects  of  his 
ife,  and  by  a  reciprocal  dislike.  About  other  priest! 


82  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

there  were  various  scandals ;  but  Don  Ippolito  wai 
like  that  pretty  match-girl  of  the  Piazza  of  whom  it 
was  Venetianly  answered,  when  one  asked  if  so 
sweet  a  face  were  not  innocent,  "  Oh  yes,  she  is 
mad !  "  He  was  of  a  purity  so  blameless  that  he 
was  reputed  crack-brained  by  the  caffS-gossip  that 
in  Venice  turns  its  searching  light  upon  whomever 
you  mention ;  and  from  his  own  association  with 
the  man  Ferris  perceived  in  him  an  apparent  single- 
heartedness  such  as  no  man  can  have  but  the  rarest 
of  Italians.  He  was  the  albino  of  his  species;  a 
gray  crow,  a  white  fly ;  he  was  really  this,  or  he 
knew  how  to  seem  it  with  an  art  far  beyond  any 
common  deceit.  It  was  the  half  expectation  of  com- 
ing sometime  upon  the  lurking  duplicity  in  Don 
Ippolito,  that  continually  enfeebled  the  painter  in 
his  attempts  to  portray  his  Venetian  priest,  and 
that  gave  its  undecided,  unsatisfactory  character  to 
the  picture  before  him  —  its  weak  hardness,  its  pro- 
voking superficiality.  He  expressed  the  traits  of 
melancholy  and  loss  that  he  imagined  in  him,  yet 
he  always  was  tempted  to  leave  the  picture  with  a 
touch  of  something  sinister  in  it,  some  airy  and  sub- 
tle shadow  of  selfish  design. 

He  stared  hard  at  Don  Ippolito  while  this  per- 
plexity filled  his  mind,  for  the  hundredth  timfe ; 
then  he  said  stiffly,  "  I  don't  know.  I  don't  want 
to  marry  anybody.  Besides,"  he  added,  relaxing 
into  a  smile  of  helpless  amusement,  "  it 's  possi- 
ble that  Miss  Vervain  might  not  want  to  marry 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  88 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Don  Ippolito,  "  you  neve* 
can  teL.  All  young  girls  desire  to  be  married,  I 
suppose,"  he  continued  with  a  sigh.  "  She  is  very 
beautiful,  is  she  not?  It  is  seldom  that  we  see 
such  a  blonde  in  Italy.  Our  blondes  are  dark ;  they 
have  auburn  hair  and  blue  eyes,  but  their  com- 
plexions are  thick.  Miss  Vervain  is  blonde  as  the 
morning  light;  the  sun's  gold  is  in  her  hair,  his 
noonday  whiteness  in  her  dazzling  throat ;  the  flush 
of  his  coming  is  on  her  lips ;  she  might  utter  the 
dawn !  " 

"You're  a  poet,  Don  Ippolito,"  laughed  the 
painter.  "  What  property  of  the  sun  is  in  her 
angry-looking  eyes  ?  " 

"  His  fire !  Ah,  that  is  her  greatest  charm  I  Those 
strange  eyes  of  hers,  they  seem  full  of  tragedies. 
She  looks  made  to  be  the  heroine  of  some  stormy 
romance ;  and  yet  how  simply  patient  and  jood 
she  is!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ferris,  who  often  responded  in  Eng- 
lish to  the  priest's  Italian  ;  and  he  added  half  mus- 
ingly in  his  own  tongue,  after  a  moment,  "  but  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  safe  to  count  upon  her.  I'm 
afraid  she  has  a  bad  temper.  At  any  rate,  I  always 
expect  to  see  smoke  somewhere  when  I  look  at 
those  eyes  of  hers.  Sha  has  wonderful  self-control, 
however ;  and  I  don't  exactly  understand  why. 
Perhaps  people  of  strong  impulses  have  strong 
mils  to  overrule  them;  it  seems  no  more  thau 
Wr." 


84  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Is  it  the  custom,"  asked  Don  Ippolito,  after  a 
moment,  "  for  the  American  young  ladies  always 
to  address  their  mammas  as  mother  ?  " 

"  No ;  that  seems  to  be  a  peculiarity  of  Miss 
Vervain's.  It 's  a  little  formality  that  I  should  say 
served  to  hold  Mrs.  Vervain  in  check." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  repulses  her  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  I  don't  think  I  could  explain,"  said 
Ferris  with  a  certain  air  of  regretting  to  have  gone 
BO  far  in  comment  on  the  Vervains.  He  added 
recklessly,  "  Don't  you  see  that  Mrs.  Vervain  some- 
times does  and  says  things  that  embarrass  her 
daughter,  and  that  Miss  Vervain  seems  to  try  to 
restrain  her  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  returned  Don  Ippolito  meditatively, 
"  that  the  signorina  was  always  very  tenderly  sub- 
missive to  her  mother." 

"Yes,  so  she  is,"  said  the  painter  dryly,  and 
looked  in  annoyance  from  the  priest  to  the  picture, 
and  from  the  picture  to  the  priest. 

After  a  minute  Don  Ippolito  said,  "  They  must 
be  very  rich  to  live  as  they  do." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  Ferris. 
"  Americans  spend  and  save  in  ways  different  from 
the  Italians.  I  dare  say  the  Vervains  find  Venice 
very  cheap  after  London  and  Paris  and  Berlin." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  "  if  they  were 
rich  you  would  be  in  a  position  to  marry  her." 

"  I  should  not  marry  Miss  Vervain  for  hat 
money,"  answered  the  painter,  sharply. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  85 

j  but  if  you  loved  her,  the  money  "would  en- 
able you  to  marry  her." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Don  Ippolito.  I  never  said  that 
I  loved  Miss  Vervain,  and  I  don't  know  how  you 
feel  warranted  in  speaking  to  me  about  the  matter 
Why  do  you  do  so  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Why  ?  I  could  not  but  imagine  that  you 
must  love  her.  Is  there  anything  wrong  in  speak- 
ing of  such  things  ?  Is  it  contrary  to  the  American 
custom  ?  I  ask  pardon  from  my  heart  if  I  have 
done  anything  amiss." 

"  There  is  no  offense,'  said  the  painter,  with  u 
laugh,  "  and  I  don't  wonder  you  thought  I  ought  to 
be  in  love  with  Miss  Vervain.  She  is  beautiful,  and 
I  believe  she's  good.  But  if  men  had  to  marry 
because  women  were  beautiful  and  good,  there  is  n't 
one  of  us  could  live  single  a  day.  Besides,  I  'm  the 
victim  of  another  passion,  —  I  'm  laboring  under  an 
unrequited  affection  for  Art." 

"  Then  you  do  not  love  her  ?  "  asked  Don  Ippo- 
ato,  eagerly. 

"  So  far  as  I  'm  advised  at  present,  no,  I  don't." 

"  It  is  strange !  "  said  the  priest,  absently,  but 
with  a  glowing  face. 

He  quitted  the  painter's  and  walked  swiftly 
homeward  with  a  triumphant  buoyancy  of  step 
A.  subtle  content  diffused  itself  over  his  face,  and 
a  joyful  light  burnt  in  his  deep  eyes.  He  sat  dowr 
before  the  piano  and  organ  as  he  had  arranged 
them,  and  began  to  strike  their  keys  in  unison  \  this 


86  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

seemed  to  him  for  the  first  time  childish.  Theii  he 
played  some  lively  bars  on  the  piano  alone ;  they 
sounded  too  light  and  trivial,  and  he  turned  to  the 
other  instrument.  As  the  plaint  of  the  reeds  arose, 
it  filled  his  sense  like  a  solemn  organ-music,  and 
transfigured  the  place ;  the  notes  swelled  to  the 
ample  vault  of  a  church,  and  at  the  high  altar  he 
was  celebrating  the  mass  in  his  sacerdotal  robes 
He  suddenly  caught  his  fingers  away  from  the  keys 
his  breast  heaved,  he  hid  his  face  in  hia  hands. 


vn. 

FBRBIS  stood  cleaning  his  palette,  after  Don  Ip. 
polito  was  gone,  scraping  the  colors  together  with 
his  knife  and  neatly  buttering  them  on  the  palette's 
edge,  while  he  wondered  what  the  priest  meant  by 
pumping  him  in  that  way.  Nothing,  he  supposed, 
and  yet  it  was  odd.  Of  course  she  had  a  bad  tem- 
per  

He  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  and  strolled  vaguely 
forth,  and  in  an  hour  or  two  came  by  a  roundabout 
course  to  the  gondola  station  nearest  his  own  house. 
There  he  stopped,  and  after  an  absent  contemplation 
of  the  boats,  from  which  the  gondoliers  were  clam- 
oring for  his  custom,  he  stepped  into  one  and  or- 
dered the  man  to  row  him  to  a  gate  on  a  small  canal 
opposite.  The  gate  opened,  at  his  ringing,  into 
the  garden  of  the  Vervains. 

Florida  was  sitting  alone  on  a  bench  near  the 
.ountain.  It  was  no  longer  a  ruined  fountain  ;  the 
broken-nosed  naiad  held  a  pipe  above  her  head, 
and  from  this  rose  a  willowy  spray  high  enough  to 
catch  some  colors  of  the  sunset  then  striking  into 
the  garden,  and  fell  again  in  a  mist  around  her, 
making  her  almost  modest. 

64 What  doee  this  mean?"   asked  Ferris,  caie- 


88  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

lessly  taking  the  young  girl's  hand.  "I  though! 
fchis  lady's  occupation  was  gone." 

"  Don  Ippolito  repaired  the  fountain  for  the  land- 
lord, and  he  agreed  to  pay  for  filling  the  tank  that 
feeds  it,"  said  Florida.  "He  seems  to  think  it  a 
hard  bargain,  for  he  only  lets  it  play  about  half  an 
hour  a  day.  But  he  says  it 's  very  ingeniously 
mended,  He  did  n't  believe  it  could  be  done.  It 
t8  pretty. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  the  painter,  with  a  singular 
desire,  going  through  him  like  a  pang,  likewise  to 
do  something  for  Miss  Vervain.  "Did  you  go  to 
Don  Ippolito's  house  the  other  day,  to  see  his 
traps  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  we  were  very  much  interested.  I  was 
Borry  that  I  knew  so  little  about  inventions.  Do 
you  think  there  are  many  practical  ideas  amongst 
his  things  ?  I  hope  there  are  —  he  seemed  so  proud 
and  pleased  to  show  them.  Shouldn't  you  think 
he  had  some  real  inventive  talent  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  has ;  but  I  know  as  little  about 
the  matter  as  you  do."  He  sat  down  beside  her, 
und  picking  up  a  twig  from  the  gravel,  pulled  the 
bark  off  in  silence.  Then,  "Miss  Vervain,"  he 
said,  knitting  his  brows,  as  he  always  did  when  he 
had  something  on  his  conscience  and  meant  to  ease 
it  at  any  cost,  "I'm  the  dog  that  fetches  a  bone 
%nd  carries  a  bone ;  I  talked  Don  Ippolito  over  witr 
you,  the  other  day,  and  now  I  've  been  talking  you 
over  with  him.  But  I  've  tho  grace  to  say  that  I  'm 
ashamed  of  myself." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  89 

"Why  need  you  be  ashamed?"  asked  Florida* 
**  You  said  no  harm  of  him.  Did  you  of  us  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  don't  think  it  was  quite  my 
business  to  discuss  you  at  all.  I  think  you  can't 
let  people  alone  too  much.  For  my  part,  if  I  try  to 
characteiize  my  friends,  I  fail  to  do  them  perfect 
justice,  of  course  ;  and  yet  the  imperfect  result  re- 
mains representative  of  them  in  my  mind  ;  it  limits 
them  and  fixes  them ;  and  I  can't  get  them  back 
again  into  the  undefined  and  the  ideal  where  they 
really  belong.  One  ought  never  to  speak  of  the 
faults  of  one's  friends :  it  mutilates  them  ;  they  can 
never  be  the  same  afterwards." 

"  So  you  have  been  talking  of  my  faults,"  said 
Florida,  breathing  quickly.  "  Perhaps  you  could 
tell  me  of  them  to  my  face." 

"  I  should  have  to  say  that  unfairness  was  one  of 
them.  But  that  is  common  to  the  whole  sex.  I 
never  said  I  was  talking  of  your  faults.  I  declared 
against  doing  so,  and  you  immediately  infer  that 
my  motive  is  remorse.  I  don't  know  that  you  have 
any  faults.  They  may  be  virtues  in  disguise. 
There  is  a  charm  even  in  unfairness.  Well,  I  did 
Bay  that  I  thought  you  had  a  quick  temper,"  — 

Florida  colored  violently. 

— "  but  now  I  see  that  I  was  mistaken,"  said 
Ferris  with  a  laugh. 

"  May  I  ask  what  else  you  said  ?  "  demanded  fch€ 
foung  girl  haughtily. 

*•'  Oh,  that  would  be  a  betrayal  of  confidence,* 
said  Ferris,  unaffected  by  her  hauteur. 


BO  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION, 

"  Then  why  have  you  mentioned  the  matter  to 
me  at  all?"  * 

"  I  wanted  to  clear  my  conscience,  I  suppose, 
and  sin  again.  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you  about 
Don  Ippolito." 

Florida  looked  with  perplexity  at  Ferris's  face, 
while  her  own  slowly  cooled  and  paled. 

"  What  did  you  want  to  say  of  him  ?  "  she  asked 
calmly. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it :  that  he  puzzles 
me,  to  begin  with.  You  know  I  feel  somewhat  re- 
sponsible for  him." 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course,  I  never  should  have  thought  of  him, 
if  it  had  n't  been  for  your  mother's  talk  that  morn- 
ing coming  back  from  San  Lazzaro." 

"  I  know,"  said  Florida,  with  a  faint  blush. 

"  And  yet,  don't  you  see,  it  was  as  much  a  fancy 
of  mine,  a  weakness  for  the  man  himself,  as  the  de- 
sire to  serve  your  mother,  that  prompted  me  to 
bring  him  to  you." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  answered  the  young  girl. 

"  I  acted  in  the  teeth  of  a  bitter  Venetian  preju- 
dice against  priests.  All  my  friends  here  —  they  're 
mostly  young  men  with  the  modern  Italian  ideas, 
or  old  liberals  —  hate  and  despise  the  priests 
They  believe  that  priests  are  full  of  guile  and  de- 
ceit, that  they  are  spies  for  the  Austrians,  and  al- 
together evil." 

u  Don  Ippolito  is  welcome  to  report  our  most  se 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  91 

eret  thoughts  to  the  police,"  said  Florida,  whose 
look  of  rising  alarm  relaxed  into  a  smile. 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  painter,  "  how  you  leap  to  con- 
clusions !  I  never  intimated  that  Don  Ippolito  was 
a  spy.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  his  difference  from 
other  priests  that  made  me  think  of  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  seems  to  be  as  much  cut  off  from  the 
church  as  from  the  world.  And  yet  he  is  a  priest, 
with  a  priest's  education.  What  if  I  should  have 
been  altogether  mistaken  ?  He  is  either  one  of  the 
openest  souls  in  the  world,  as  you  have  insisted,  or 
he  is  one  of  the  closest." 

"  I  should  not  be  afraid  of  him  in  any  case,"  said 
Florida ;  "  but  I  can't  believe  any  wrong  of  him." 

Ferris  frowned  in  annoyance.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  ;  I  don't,  myself.  I  've  bungled  the  matter 
as  I  might  have  known  I  would.  I  was  trying  to 
put  into  words  an  undefined  uneasiness  of  mine,  a 
quite  formless  desire  to  have  you  possessed  of  the 
whole  case  as  it  had  come  up  in  my  mind.  I  've 
made  a  mess  of  it,"  said  Ferris  rising,  with  a  rueful 
air.  "  Besides,  I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  Mra. 
Vervain." 

"  Oh  no,"  cried  Florida,  eagerly,  springing  to  her 
feet  beside  him.  "  Don't !  Little  things  wear  upon 
my  mother,  so.  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  speak  to  her. 
I  don't  misunderstand  you,  I  think;  I  expressed 
myself  badly,"  she  added  with  an  anxious  face.  "  I 
thank  you.  very  much.  What  do  you  want  me  tc 
" 


92  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

By  Ferris's  impulse  they  both  began  to  move 
down  the  garden  path  toward  the  water-gate.  The 
sunset  had  faded  out  of  the  fountain,  but  it  still  lit 
the  whole  heaven,  in  whose  vast  blue  depths  hung 
light  whiffs  of  pinkish  cloud,  as  ethereal  as  the  dra- 
peries that  floated  after  Miss  Vervain  as  she  walked 
with  a  splendid  grace  beside  him,  no  awkwardness, 
now,  or  self-constraint  in  her.  As  she  turned  to 
Ferris,  and  asked  in  her  deep  tones,  to  which  some 
latent  feeling  imparted  a  slight  tremor,  "  What  do 
you  want  me  to  do  ?  "  the  sense  of  her  willingness 
to  be  bidden  by  him  gave  him  a  delicious  thrill. 
He  looked  at  the  superb  creature,  so  proud,  so  help- 
less ;  so  much  a  woman,  so  much  a  child ;  and  he 
caught  his  breath  before  he  answered.  Her  gauzes 
blew  about  his  feet  in  the  light  breeze  that  lifted 
the  foliage ;  she  was  a  little  near-sighted,  and  in 
her  eagerness  she  drew  closer  to  him,  fixing  her 
eyes  full  upon  his  with  a  bold  innocence.  "  Good 
heavens !  Miss  Vervain,"  he  cried,  with  a  sudden 
blush,  "it  isn't  a  serious  matter.  I'm  a  fool  to 
have  spoken  to  you.  Don't  do  anything.  Let 
things  go  on  as  before.  It  is  n't  for  me  to  instruct 
you." 

"  I  should  have  been  very  glad  of  your  advice," 
she  said  with  a  disappointed,  almost  wounded  man- 
toer,  keeping  her  eyes  upon  him.  "  It  seems  to  ma 
ire  are  always  going  wrong  "  — 

She  stopped  short,  with  a  flush  and  then  a  pallor 

Ferris  returned  her  look  with  one  of  comical  di» 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  93 

may.  This  apparent  readiness  of  Miss  Vervain's 
to  be  taken  command  of,  daunted  him,  on  second 
thoughts.  "  I  wish  you  'd  dismiss  all  my  stupid 
talk  from  your  mind,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  'd 
been  guiltily  trying  to  set  you  against  a  man  whom 
I  like  very  much  and  have  no  reason  not  to  trust, 
and  who  thinks  me  so  much  his  friend  that  he 
could  n't  dream  of  my  making  any  sort  of  trouble 
for  him.  It  would  break  his  heart,  I  'm  afraid,  if 
you  treated  him  in  a  different  way  from  that  in 
which  you've  treated  him  till  now.  It's  really 
touching  to  listen  to  his  gratitude  to  you  and  your 
mother.  It 's  only  conceivable  on  the  ground  that 
he  has  never  had  friends  before  in  the  world.  He 
seems  like  another  man,  or  the  same  man  come  to 
life.  And  it  is  n't  his  fault  that  he  's  a  priest.  I 
suppose,"  he  added,  with  a  sort  of  final  throe, 
"that  a  Venetian  family  wouldn't  use  him  with 
the  frank  hospitality  you  've  shown,  not  because 
they  distrusted  him  at  all,  perhaps,  but  because 
they  would  be  afraid  of  other  Venetian  tongues." 

This  ultimate  drop  of  venom,  helplessly  distilled, 
did  not  seem  to  rankle  in  Miss  Vervain's  mind. 
She  walked  now  with  her  face  turned  from  his,  and 
she  answered  coldly,  "  We  shall  not  be  troubled. 
We  don't  care  for  Venetian  tongues." 

They  were  at  the  gate.  "  Good-by,"  said  Ferris, 
abruptly,  "  I  'm  going." 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  my  mother  ?  "  asked 
Florida,  with  her  awkward  self-constraint  again 
*pon  her. 


94  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Ferris,  gloomily.  "  I  have  n't 
time.  I  just  dropped  in  for  a  moment,  to  blast  an 
innocent  man's  reputation,  and  destroy  a  young 
lady's  peace  of  mind." 

"  Then  you  need  n't  go,  yet,"  answered  Florida, 
coldly,  " for  you  haven't  succeeded." 

"  Well,  I  've  done  my  worst,"  returned  Ferris, 
drawing  the  bolt. 

He  went  away,  hanging  his  head  in  amazement 
and  disgust  at  himself  for  his  clumsiness  and  bad 
taste.  It  seemed  to  him  a  contemptible  part,  first 
to  embarrass  them  with  Don  Ippolito's  acquaint- 
ance, if  it  was  an  embarrassment,  and  then  try  to 
sneak  out  of  his  responsibility  by  these  tardy  cau- 
tions ;  and  if  it  was  not  going  to  be  an  embarrass- 
ment, it  was  folly  to  have  approached  the  matter  at 
all. 

What  had  he  wanted  to  do,  and  with  what  mo- 
tive ?  He  hardly  knew.  As  he  battled  the  ground 
over  and  over  again,  nothing  comforted  him  save 
the  thought  that,  bad  as  it  was  to  have  spoken  to 
Miss  Vervain,  it  must  have  been  infinitely  worse  to 
ipeak  to  her  mother. 


vo. 

IT  was  late  before  Ferris  iorgot  his  chagrin  in 
sleep,  and  when  he  woke  the  next  morning,  the  sun 
was  making  the  solid  green  blinds  at  his  window 
odorous  of  their  native  pine  woods  with  its  heat, 
and  thrusting  a  golden  spear  at  the  heart  of  Don 
Ippolito's  effigy  where  he  had  left  it  on  the  easel. 

Marina  brought  a  letter  with  his  coffee.  The 
letter  was  from  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  it  entreated  him 
to  come  to  lunch  at  twelve,  and  then  join  them  on 
an  excursion,  of  which  they  had  all  often  talked,  up 
the  Canal  of  the  Brenta.  "  Don  Ippolito  has  got 
his  permission  —  think  of  his  not  being  able  to  go 
to  the  mainland  without  the  Patriarch's  leave  !  and 
can  go  with  us  to-day.  So  I  try  to  make  this  hasty 
arrangement.  You  must  come  —  it  all  depends 
upon  you." 

"  Yes,  so  it  seems,"  groaned  the  painter,  and 
went. 

In  the  garden  he  found  Don  Tppolito  and  Florida, 
at  the  fountain  where  he  had  himself  parted  with 
her  the  evening  before;  and  he  observed  with  a 
guilty  relief  that  Don  Ippolito  was  talking  to  her 
in  the  happy  unconsciousness  habitual  with  him. 

Florida  cast  at  the  painter  a  swift  glance  of  latent 
appeal  and  intelligence,  which  he  refused  end  in 


96  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

the  same  instant  she  met  him  with  another  look,  11 
if  she  now  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  and  gave  him 
her  hand  in  greeting.  It  was  a  beautiful  hand; 
he  could  not  help  worshipping  its  lovely  forms,  and 
the  lily  whiteness  and  softness  of  the  back,  the  rose 
of  the  palm  and  finger-tips. 

She  idly  resumed  the  great  Venetian  fan  which 
hung  from  her  waist  by  a  chain.  "  Don  Ippolito 
has  been  talking  about  the  villeggiatura  on  the 
Brenta  in  the  old  days,"  she  explained. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  painter,  "  they  used  to  have 
merry  times  in  the  villas  then,  and  it  was  worth 
while  being  a  priest,  or  at  least  an  ablate  di  casa. 
I  should  think  you  would  sigh  for  a  return  of  those 
good  old  days,  Don  Ippolito.  Just  imagine,  if  you 
were  abbate  di  casa  with  some  patrician  family 
about  the  close  of  the  last  century,  you  might  be  the 
instructor,  companion,  and  spiritual  adviser  of  Illus- 
trissima  at  the  theatres,  card-parties,  and  masquer- 
ades, all  winter ;  and  at  this  season,  instead  of  go- 
ing up  the  Brenta  for  a  day's  pleasure  with  us 
barbarous  Yankees,  you  might  be  setting  out  with 
Illustrissima  and  all  the  4  Strissimi  and  'Strissime, 
big  and  little,  for  a  spring  villeggiatura  there.  You 
would  be  going  in  a  gilded  barge,  with  songs  and 
fiddles  and  dancing,  instead  of  a  common  gondola, 
and  you  would  stay  a  month,  walking,  going  to 
parties  and  caffds,  drinking  chocolate  and  lemonade 
gaming,  sonneteering,  and  butterflying  about  gen 
wmlly." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  97 

*'  It  was  doubtless  a  beautiful  life,"  answered 
the  priest,  with  simple  indifference.  "  But  I  never 
have  thought  of  it  with  regret,  because  I  have  been 
preoccupied  with  other  ideas  than  those  of  social 
pleasures,  though  perhaps  they  were  no  wiser." 

Florida  had  watched  Don  Ippolito's  face  while 
Ferris  was  speaking,  and  she  now  asked  gravely, 
44  But  don't  you  think  their  life  nowadays  is  more 
becoming  to  the  clergy  ?  " 

"  Why,  madamigella  ?  What  harm  was  there 
in  those  gayeties  ?  I  suppose  the  bad  features  of 
the  old  life  are  exaggerated  to  us." 

"  They  could  n't  have  been  worse  than  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  hard-drinking,  hard-riding,  hard- 
swearing,  fox-hunting  English  parsons  about  the 
same  time,"  said  Ferris.  "  Besides,  the  abbate  di 
casa  had  a  charm  of  his  own,  the  charm  of  all  rococo 
things,  which,  whatever  you  may  say  of  them,  are 
somehow  elegant  and  refined,  or  at  least  refer  to 
elegance  and  refinement.  I  don't  say  they  're  en- 
nobling, but  they  're  fascinating.  I  don't  respect 
them,  but  I  love  them.  When  I  think  about  the 
past  of  Venice,  I  don't  care  so  much  to  see  any  of 
the  heroically  historical  things ;  but  I  should  like 
immensely  to  have  looked  in  at  the  Ridotto,  when 
the  place  was  at  its  gayest  with  wigs  and  masks, 
Hoops  and  small-clothes,  fans  and  rapiers,  bows  and 
courtesies,  whispers  ard  glances.  I  dare  say  I 
ih<  uld  have  found  Don  Ippolito  there  in  some  be* 
doming  disguise.' 
7 


98  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Florida  looked  from  the  painter  to  the  priest  and 
back  to  the  painter,  as  Ferris  spoke,  and  then  she 
turned  a  little  anxiously  toward  the  terrace,  and 
a  shadow  slipped  from  her  face  as  her  mother  came 
rustling  down  the  steps,  catching  at  her  drapery 
and  shaking  it  into  place.  The  young  girl  hur- 
ried to  meet  her,  lifted  her  arms  for  what  promised 
an  embrace,  and  with  firm  hands  set  the  elder 
lady's  bonnet  straight  with  her  forehead. 

"  I  'm  always  getting  it  on  askew,"  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain said  for  greeting  to  Ferris.  "  How  do  you  do, 
Don  Ippolito  ?  But  I  suppose  you  think  I  've  kept 
you  long  enough  to  get  it  on  straight  for  once.  So 
I  have.  I  am  a  fuss,  and  I  don't  deny  it.  At  my 
time  of  life,  it 's  much  harder  to  make  yourself  ship- 
shape than  it  is  when  you  're  younger.  I  tell  Flor- 
ida that  anybody  would  take  her  for  the  old  lady, 
she  does  seem  to  give  so  little  care  to  getting  up  an 
appearance." 

"  And  yet  she  has  the  effect  of  a  stylish  young 
person  in  the  bloom  of  youth,"  observed  Ferris, 
with  a  touch  of  caricature. 

"  We  had  better  lunch  with  our  things  on,"  said 
Mrs.  Vervain,  "and  then  there  needn't  be  any 
ielay  in  starting.  I  thought  we  would  have  it 
here,"  she  added,  as  Nina  and  the  house-servant 
appeared  with  trays  of  dishes  and  cups.  "So  tha\ 
we  can  start  in  a  real  picnicky  spirit.  I  knew 
you  'd  think  it  a  womanish  lunch,  Mr.  Ferris  —  Don 
Ippolilo  likes  what  we  do  —  and  so  I've  provided 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  99 

you  with  a  chicken  salad ;  and  I'm  going  to  ask 
you  for  a  taste  of  it ;  I  'm  really  hungry." 

There  was  salad  for  all,  in  fact ;  and  it  was  quite 
one  o'clock  before  the  lunch  was  ended,  and  wraps 
of  just  the  right  thickness  and  thinness  were  chosen, 
and  the  party  were  comfortably  placed  under  the 
striped  linen  canopy  of  the  gondola,  which  they  had 
from  a  public  station,  the  house-gondola  being  en- 
gaged that  day.  They  rowed  through  the  narrow 
canal  skirting  the  garden  out  into  the  expanse  be- 
fore the  Giudecca,  and  then  struck  across  the  la- 
goon towards  Fusina,  past  the  island-church  of  San 
Giorgio  in  Alga,  whose  beautiful  tower  has  flushed 
and  darkened  in  so  many  pictures  of  Venetian  sun- 
sets, and  past  the  Austrian  lagoon  forts  with  their 
coronets  of  guns  threatening  every  point,  and  the 
Croatian  sentinels  pacing  to  and  fro  on  their  walls. 
They  stopped  long  enough  at  one  of  the  customs 
barges  to  declare  to  the  swarthy,  amiable  officers 
the  innocence  of  their  freight,  and  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Canal  of  the  Brenta  they  paused  before  the 
station  while  a  policeman  came  out  and  scanned 
them.  He  bowed  to  Don  Ippolito's  cloth,  and  then 
they  began  to  push  up  the  sluggish  canal,  shallow 
and  overrun  with  weeds  and  mosses,  into  the  heart 
of  the  land. 

The  spring,  which  in  Venice  comes  in  the  soften- 
ing air  and  the  perpetual  azure  of  the  heavens,  was 
renewed  to  their  senses  in  all  its  miraculous  loveli- 
The  garden  of  the  Vervains  ha  d  indeed  con- 


100  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

fessed  it  in  opulence  of  leaf  and  bloom,  but  there  H 
Beemed  somehow  only  like  a  novel  effect  of  the  arti- 
fice which  had  been  able  to  create  a  garden  in  that 
city  of  stone  and  sea.  Here  a  vernal  world  sud- 
denly opened  before  them,  with  wide-stretching 
fields  of  green  under  a  dome  of  perfect  blue; 
against  its  walls  only  the  soft  curves  of  far-off  hills 
were  traced,  and  near  at  hand  the  tender  forms  of 
full-foliaged  trees.  The  long  garland  of  vines  that 
festoons  all  Italy  seemed  to  begin  in  the  neighbor- 
ing orchards ;  the  meadows  waved  their  tall  grasses 
in  the  sun,  and  broke  in  poppies  as  the  sea-waves 
break  in  iridescent  spray ;  the  well-grown  maize 
shook  its  gleaming  blades  in  the  light ;  the  poplars 
marched  in  stately  procession  on  either  side  of  the 
straight,  white  road  to  Padua,  till  they  vanished 
in  the  long  perspective.  The  blossoms  had  fallen 
from  the  trees  many  weeks  before,  but  the  air  was 
full  of  the  vague  sweetness  of  the  perfect  spring, 
which  here  and  there  gathered  and  defined  itself  as 
the  spicy  odor  of  the  grass  cut  on  the  shore  of  the 
lanal,  and  drying  in  the  mellow  heat  of  the  sun. 

The  voyagers  spoke  from  time  to  time  of  some 
peculiarity  of  the  villas  that  succeeded  each  other 
nlong  the  canal.  Don  Ippolito  knew  a  few  of  them, 
the  gondoliers  knew  others  ;  but  after  all,  their 
names  were  nothing.  These  haunts  of  old-time 
splendor  and  idleness  weary  of  themselves,  and  un 
*ble  to  escape,  are  sadder  than  anything  in  Venice 
Bud  they  belonged,  as  far  as  the  Americans  wore 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  101 

concerned,  to  a  world  as  strange  as  any  to  which 
they  should  go  in  another  l:fe,  —  the  world  of  a 
faded  fashion  and  an  alien  history.  Some  of  the 
villas  were  kept  in  a  sort  of  repair  ;  some  were  even 
maintained  in  the  state  of  old  ;  but  the  most  showed 
marks  of  greater  or  less  decay,  and  here  and  there 
one  was  falling  to  ruin.  They  had  gardens  about 
them,  tangled  and  wild-grown  ;  a  population  of  de- 
crepit statues  in  the  rococo  taste  strolled  in  their 
walks  or  simpered  from  their  gates.  Two  or  three 
houses  seemed  to  be  occupied;  the  rest  stood 
empty,  each 

"  Close  latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 
And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines." 

The  pleasure-party  had  no  fixed  plan  for  the  day 
further  than  to  ascend  the  canal,  and  by  and  by 
take  a  carriage  at  some  convenient  village  and 
drive  to  the  famous  Villa  Pisani  at  Stra. 

"  These  houses  are  very  well,"  said  Don  Ippolita; 
who  had  visited  the  villa  once,  and  with  whom  it 
had  remained  a  memory  almost  as  signal  as  that 
night  in  Padua  when  he  wore  civil  dress,  "  but  it  is 
at  Stra  that  you  see  something  really  worthy  of  the 
royal  splendor  of  the  patricians  of  Venice.  Royal  ? 
The  villa  is  now  one  of  the  palaces  of  the  ex- 
Emperor  of  Austria,  who  does  not  find  it  less  im- 
perial than  his  other  palaces."  Don  Ippolito  had 
telebrated  the  villa  at  Stra  in  this  strain  ever  since 
they  had  spoken  of  going  up  the  Brenta :  now  it 
ra»  the  magnificent  conservatories  and  orangerief 


102  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION 

that  lie  sang,  now  the  vast  garden  with  its  statued 
walks  between  rows  of  clipt  cedars  and  firs,  now 
the  stables  with  their  stalls  for  numberless  horses, 
now  the  palace  itself  with  its  frescoed  halls  and 
treasures  of  art  and  vertu.  His  enthusiasm  for  the 
villa  at  Stra  had  become  an  amiable  jest  with  the 
Americans.  Ferris  laughed  at  his  fresh  outburst 
he  declared  himself  tired  of  the  gondola,  and  he 
asked  Florida  to  disembark  with  him  and  walk 
under  the  trees  of  a  pleasant  street  running  on  one 
side  between  the  villas  and  the  canal.  "  We  are 
going  to  find  something  much  grander  than  the 
Villa  Pisani,"  he  boasted,  with  a  look  at  Don  Ippo- 
lito. 

As  they  sauntered  along  the  path  together,  they 
came  now  and  then  to  a  stately  palace  like  that  of 
the  Contarini,  where  the  lions,  that  give  their  name 
to  one  branch  of  the  family,  crouch  in  stone  before 
the  grand  portal ;  but  most  of  the  houses  were  in- 
teresting only  from  their  unstoried  possibilities  to 
the  imagination.  They  were  generally  of  stucco, 
and  glared  with  fresh  whitewash  through  the  foli- 
age of  their  gardens.  When  a  peasant's  cottage 
broke  their  line,  it  gave,  with  its  barns  and  straw- 
stacks  and  its  beds  of  pot-herbs,  a  homely  relief 
from  the  decaying  gentility  of  the  villas. 

"  What  a  pity  Miss  Vervain,"  said  the  painter, 
'*  that  the  blessings  of  this  world  should  be  so  un- 
equally divided !  Why  should  all  this  sketchable 
idvorsity  be  lavished  upon  the  neighborhood  of  a 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  108 

rity  that  is  so  rich  as  Venice  in  picturesque  dilapi- 
dation? It's  pretty  hard  on  us  Americans,  and 
forces  people  of  sensibility  into  exile.  What 
wouldn't  cultivated  persons  give  for  a  stretch  of 
this  street  in  the  suburbs  of  Boston,  or  of  your  own 
Providence  ?  I  suppose  the  New  Yorkers  will  be 
getting  up  something  of  the  kind  one  of  these  days, 
and  giving  it  a  French  name  —  they  '11  call  it  Aux 
bords  du  Brenta.  There  was  one  of  them  carried 
back  a  gondola  the  other  day  to  put  on  a  pond  in 
their  new  park.  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  you  can't 
take  home  the  sentiment  of  these  things." 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  business  of  painters  to 
send  home  the  sentiment  of  them  in  pictures,"  said 
Florida. 

Ferris  talked  to  her  in  this  way  because  it  was 
his  way  of  talking  ;  it  always  surprised  him  a  little 
that  she  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it;  he  was  not 
quite  sure  that  she  did ;  he  sometimes  thought  she 
waited  till  she  could  seize  upon  a  point  to  turn 
against  him,  and  so  give  herself  the  air  of  having 
comprehended  the  whole.  He  laughed  :  "  Oh  yes, 
a  poor  little  fragmentary,  faded-out  reproduction  of 
their  sentiment  —  which  is  '  as  moonlight  unto  sun- 
\ight  and  as  water  unto  wine,'  when  compared  with 
the  real  thing.  Suppose  I  made  a  picture  of  this 
rery  bit,  ourselves  in  the  foreground,  looking  at  tbs 
garden  over  there  where  that  amusing  Vandal  of  an 
pwner  has  just  had  his  statues  painted  white :  would 
tor  friends  at  home  understand  it  ?  A  whole  his 


104  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

fcory  must  be  left  unexpressed.  I  could  only  hint  at 
an  entire  situation.  Of  course,  people  with  a  taste 
for  olives  would  get  the  flavor ;  but  even  they  would 
wonder  that  I  chose  such  an  unsuggestive  bit.  Why, 
it  is  just  the  most  maddeningly  suggestive  thing  to 
be  found  here  !  And  if  I  may  put  it  modestly,  for 
my  share  in  it,  I  think  we  two  young  Americans 
looking  on  at  this  supreme  excess  of  the  rococo,  are 
the  very  essence  of  the  sentiment  of  the  scene  ;  but 
what  would  the  honored  connoisseurs  —  the  good 
folks  who  get  themselves  up  on  Ruskin  and  try  so 
honestly  hard  to  have  some  little  ideas  about  art 
—  make  of  us  ?  To  be  sure  they  might  justifiably 
praise  the  grace  of  your  pose,  if  I  were  so  lucky  as 
to  catch  it,  and  your  way  of  putting  your  hand 
under  the  elbow  of  the  arm  that  holds  your  para- 
sol," —  Florida  seemed  disdainfully  to  keep  her 
attitude,  and  the  painter  smiled,  — "  but  they 
would  n't  know  what  it  all  meant,  and  could  n't 
imagine  that  we  were  inspired  by  this  rascally  little 
villa  to  sigh  longingly  over  the  wicked  past."  .... 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Florida,  with  a  touch 
of  trouble  in  her  proud  manner,  "  I  'm  not  sighing 
over  it,  for  one,  and  I  don't  want  it  back.  I  'm  glad 
that  I  'm  American  and  that  there  is  no  past  for  me. 
I  can't  understand  how  you  and  Don  Ippolito  can 
speak  so  tolerantly  of  what  no  one  can  respect," 
the  added,  in  almost  an  aggrieved  tone. 

If  Miss  Vervain  wanted  to  turn  the  talk  upon 
Oon  Ippolito,  Ferris  by  no  means  did ;  he  had  hao 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  105 

enough  of  that  subject  yesterday ;  he  got  as  lightly 
away  from  it  as  he  could. 

"  Oh,  Don  Ippolito  's  a  pagan,  I  tell  you ;  and 
I  'm  a  painter,  and  the  rococo  is  my  weakness.  I 
wish  I  could  paint  it,  but  I  can  t ;  I  'm  a  hundred 
years  too  late.  I  could  n't  even  paint  myself  in  the 
act  of  sentimentalizing  it." 

While  he  talked,  he  had  been  making  a  few  lines 
in  a  small  pocket  sketch-book,  with  a  furtive  glance 
or  two  at  Florida.  When  they  returned  to  the 
boat,  he  busied  himself  again  with  the  book,  and 
presently  he  handed  it  to  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Why,  it 's  Florida  !  "  cried  the  lady.  "  How 
very  nicely  you  do  sketch,  Mr.  Ferris." 

"Thanks,  Mrs.  Vervain;  you're  always  flatter- 
ing me." 

44  No,  but  seriously.  I  wish  that  I  had  paid  more 
attention  to  my  drawing  when  I  was  a  girl.  And 
now,  Florida  —  she  won't  touch  a  pencil.  I  wish 
you  'd  talk  to  her,  Mr.  Ferris." 

"  Oh,  people  who  are  pictures  need  n't  trouble 
themselves  to  be  painters,"  said  Ferris,  with  a  little 
burlesque. 

Mrs.  Vervain  began  to  look  at  the  sketch  through 
her  tubed  hand;  the  painter  made  a  grimace. 
44  But  you  've  made  her  too  proud,  Mr.  Ferns.  She 
does  n't  look  like  that." 

44  Yes  she  does —  to  those  unworthy  of  her  kind- 
ness. I  have  taken  Miss  Vervain  in  the  act  of 
•coming  the  rococo,  and  its  humble  admirer,  me, 
With  it." 


106  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr. 
Ferris ;  but  I  can't  think  that  this  proud  look  is 
habitual  with  Florida ;  and  I  've  heard  people  say 
—  very  good  judges  —  that  an  artist  oughtn't  to 
perpetuate  a  temporary  expression.  Something  like 
that." 

"It  can't  be  helped  now,  Mrs.  Vervain:  the 
sketch  is  irretrievably  immortal.  I'm  sorry,  but 
it's  too  late." 

"  Oh,  stuff !  As  if  you  could  n't  turn  up  the  cor- 
ners of  the  mouth  a  little.  Or  something." 

"And  give  her  the  appearance  of  laughing  at 
me?  Never!" 

"  Don  Ippolito,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  turning 
to  the  priest,  who  had  been  listening  intently  to 
all  this  trivial  talk,  "what  do  you  think  of  this 
sketch?" 

He  took  the  book  with  an  eager  hand,  and  pe- 
rused the  sketch  as  if  trying  to  read  some  secret 
there.  After  a  minute  he  handed  it  back  with  a 
light  sigh,  apparently  of  relief,  but  said  nothing 

"  Well?"  asked  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Oh !  I  ask  pardon.  No,  it  is  n't  my  idea  of 
tnadamigella.  It  seems  to  me  that  her  likeness 
must  be  sketched  in  color.  Those  lines  are  true, 
but  they  need  color  to  subdue  them ;  they  go  too 
Car,  they  are  more  than  true." 

"  You  're  quite  right,  Don  Ippolito,"  said  Ferris. 

"  Then  you  don't  think  she  always  has  this  proud 
look  ?  "  pursued  Mrs.  Vervain. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  107 

The  painter  fancied  that  Florida  quelled  in  her- 
self a  movement  of  impatience;  he  looked  at  hef 
with  an  amused  smile. 

"  Not  always,  no,"  answered  Don  Ippolito. 
"  Sometimes  her  face  expresses  the  greatest  meek- 
ness in  the  world." 

"  But  not  at  the  present  moment,"  thought  Fer- 
ris, fascinated  by  the  stare  of  angry  pride  which  the 
girl  bent  upon  the  unconscious  priest. 

"  Though  I  confess  that  I  should  hardly  know 
how  to  characterize  her  habitual  expression,"  added 
Don  Ippolito. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Florida,  peremptorily.  "  I  'm 
tired  of  the  subject ;  it  is  n't  an  important  one." 

"  Oh  yes  it  is,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain. 
"  At  least  it 's  important  to  me,  if  it  is  n't  to  you  ; 
for  I  'm  your  mother,  and  really,  if  I  thought  you 
looked  like  this,  as  a  general  thing,  to  a  casual  ob- 
server, I  should  consider  it  a  reflection  upon  my- 
self." Ferris  gave  a  provoking  laugh,  as  she  con- 
tinued sweetly,  "  I  must  insist,  Don  Ippolito :  now 
did  you  ever  see  Florida  look  so  ?  " 

The  girl  leaned  back,  and  began  to  wave  her  fan 
lowly  to  and  fro  before  her  face. 

"  I  never  saw  her  look  so  with  you,  dear  mada- 
Ha,"  said  the  priest  with  an  anxious  glance  at  Flor- 
ida, who  let  her  fan  fall  folded  into  her  lap,  and  sat 
still.  He  went  on  with  priestly  smoothness,  and  a 
touch  of  something  like  invoked  authority,  such  aa 
R  man  might  show  who  could  dispense  indulgences 


108  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

and  inflict  penances.  "No  one  could  help  seeing 
her  devotedness  to  you,  and  I  have  admired  from 
the  first  an  obedience  and  tenderness  that  I  have 
never  known  equaled.  In  all  her  relations  to  you, 
madamigella  has  seemed  to  me  "  — 

Florida  started  forward.  "  You  are  not  asked  tc 
comment  on  my  behavior  to  my  mother;  you  are 
not  invited  to  speak  of  my  conduct  at  all ! "  she 
burst  out  with  sudden  violence,  her  visage  flaming, 
and  her  blue  eyes  burning  upon  Don  Ippolito,  who 
shrank  from  the  astonishing  rudeness  as  from  a  blow 
in  the  face.  "  What  is  it  to  you  how  I  treat  my 
mother  ?  " 

She  sank  back  again  upon  the  cushions,  and 
opening  the  fan  with  a  clash  swept  it  swiftly  be- 
fore her. 

"  Florida !  "  said  her  mother  gravely. 

Ferris  turned  away  in  cold  disgust,  like  one  who 
has  witnessed  a  cruelty  done  to  some  helpless  thing. 
Don  Ippolito's  speech  was  not  fortunate  at  the  best, 
but  it  might  have  come  from  a  foreigner's  misap- 
prehension, and  at  the  worst  it  was  good-natured 
and  well-meant.  "  The  girl  is  a  perfect  brute,  as 
I  thought  in  the  beginning,"  the  painter  said  to 
himself.  "  How  could  I  have  ever  thought  differ- 
ently ?  I  shall  have  to  tell  Don  Ippolito  that  I  'm 
ashamed  of  her,  and  disclaim  all  responsibility. 
Pah !  I  wish  I  was  out  of  this." 

The  pleasure  of  the  day  was  dead.  It  could  not 
rall^  from  that  stroke.  They  went  on  to  Strm,  ai 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  109 

they  had  planned,  but  the  glory  of  the  Villa  Plsani 
was  eclipsed  for  Don  Ippolito.  He  plainly  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  He  did  not  address  Florida 
again,  whose  savagery  he  would  not  probably  have 
known  how  to  resent  if  he  had  wished  to  resent  it. 
Mrs.  Vervain  prattled  away  to  him  with  unrelenting 
kindness  ;  Ferris  kept  near  him,  and  with  affection- 
ate zeal  tried  to  make  him  talk  of  the  villa ,  but 
neither  the  frescoes,  nor  the  orangeries,  nor  the 
green-houses,  nor  the  stables,  nor  the  gardens  could 
rouse  him  from  the  listless  daze  in  which  he  moved, 
though  Ferris  found  them  all  as  wonderful  as  he 
had  said.  Amidst  this  heavy  embarrassment  no  one 
seemed  at  ease  but  the  author  of  it.  She  did  not, 
to  be  sure,  speak  to  Don  Ippolito,  but  she  followed 
her  mother  as  usual  with  her  assiduous  cares,  and 
she  appeared  tranquilly  unconscious  of  the  sarcastic 
civility  with  which  Ferris  rendered  her  any  service. 
It  was  laj;e  in  the  afternoon  when  they  got  back 
to  their  boat  and  began  to  descend  the  canal  to- 
wards Venice,  and  long  before  they  reached  Fusina 
the  day  had  passed.  A  sunset  of  melancholy  red, 
streaked  with  level  lines  of  murky  cloud,  stretched 
across  the  flats  behind  them,  and  faintly  tinged 
with  its  reflected  light  the  eastern  horizon  which 
the  towers  and  domes  of  Venice  had  not  yet  begun 
ko  break.  The  twilight  came,  and  then  through 
the  overcast  heavens  the  moon  shone  dim ;  a  light 
olossomed  here  and  there  in  the  villas,  distant  voices 
called  musically ;  a  cow  lowed,  a  dog  barked ;  the 


110  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

rich,  sweet  breath  of  the  vernal  land  mingled  iti 
odors  with  the  sultry  air  of  the  neighboring  lagoon. 
The  wayfarers  spoke  little;  the  time  hnng  heavy 
on  all,  no  doubt ;  to  Ferris  it  was  a  burden  almost 
intolerable  to  hear  the  creak  of  the  oars  and  the 
breathing  of  the  gondoliers  keeping  time  together. 
Afc  last  the  boat  stopped  in  front  of  the  police-sta- 
tion in  Fusina ;  a  soldier  with  a  sword  at  his  side 
and  a  lantern  in  his  hand  came  out  and  briefly  par- 
leyed with  the  gondoliers  ;  they  stepped  ashore, 
and  he  marched  them  into  the  station  before  him. 

"  We  have  nothing  left  to  wish  for  now,"  said 
Ferris,  breaking  into  an  ironical  laugh. 

"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go  see." 

"  We  will  go  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Pazienza  !  "  replied  Ferris. 

The  ladies  rose ;  but  Don  Ippolito  remained 
seated.  "  Are  n't  you  going  too,  Don  Ippolito  ?  " 
&sked  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Thanks,  madama ;  but  I  prefer  to  stay  here." 

Lamentable  cries  and  shrieks,  as  if  the  prisoners 
had  immediately  been  put  to  the  torture,  came  from 
the  station  as  Ferris  opened  the  door.  A  lamp  of 
petroleum  lighted  the  scene,  and  shone  upon  the  fig- 
ares  of  two  fishermen,  who  bewailed  themselves  un- 
intelligibly in  the  vibrant  accents  of  Chiozza,  and 
from  time  to  time  advanced  upon  the  gondoliers,  and 
ihook  their  heads  and  beat  their  breasts  at  them, 
A  few  police-guards  reclined  upon  benches  about 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  Ill 

fche  room,  and  surveyed  the  spectacle  with  mild  im- 
passibility. 

Ferris  politely  asked  one  of  them  the  cause  of 
fche  detention. 

"Why,  you  see,  signore,"  answered  the  guard 
amiably,  "  these  honest  men  accuse  your  gondolier! 
of  having  stolen  a  rope  out  of  their  boat  at  Dolo." 

"  It  was  my  blood,  you  know !  "  howled  the  elder 
of  the  fishermen,  tossing  his  arms  wildly  abroad, 
44  it  was  my  own  heart,"  he  cried,  letting  the  last 
vowel  die  away  and  rise  again  in  mournful  refrain, 
while  he  stared  tragically  into  Ferris's  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Vervain, 
putting  up  her  glasses,  and  trying  with  graceful  fu- 
tility to  focus  the  melodrama. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Ferris ;  "  our  gondoliers  have 
had  the  heart's  blood  of  this  respectable  Dervish ; 
that  is  to  say,  they  have  stolen  a  rope  belonging  to 
him." 

"-  Our  gondoliers  !  I  don't  believe  it.  They  Ve 
no  right  to  keep  us  here  all  night.  Tell  them 
you  're  the  American  consul." 

"  I  'd  rather  not  try  my  dignity  on  these  under- 
lings, Mrs.  Vervain ;  there 's  no  American  squadron 
here  that  I  could  order  to  bombard  Fusina,  if-  they 
did  n't  mind  me.  But  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do 
further  in  quality  of  courteous  foreigner.  Can  you 
perhaps  tell  me  how  long  you  will  be  obliged  to  de- 
tain us  here  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  guard  again, 

44 1  am  very  sorry  to  detain  you  at  all,  signore 


112  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

But  what  can  I  do  ?     The  commissary  if>  unhappily 
absent.     He  may  be  here  soon." 

The  guard  renewed  his  apathetic  contemplation 
of  the  gondoliers,  who  did  not  speak  a  word ;  the 
windy  lamentation  of  the  fishermen  rose  and  fell  At- 
fully.  Presently  they  went  out  of  doors  and  poured 
forth  their  wrongs  to  the  moon. 

The  room  was  close,  and  with  some  trouble  Fer- 
ris persuaded  Mrs.  Vervain  to  return  to  the  gondola, 
Florida  seconding  his  arguments  with  gentle  good 
sense. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  till  the  commissary  came, 
but  his  coming  instantly  simplified  the  situation. 
Perhaps  because  he  had  never  been  able  to  befriend 
a  consul  in  trouble  before,  he  befriended  Ferris  to 
the  utmost.  He  had  met  him  with  rather  a  brow- 
beating air  ;  but  after  a  glance  at  his  card,  he  gave 
a  kind  of  roar  of  deprecation  and  apology.  He  had 
the  ladies  and  Don  Ippolito  in  out  of  the  gondola, 
and  led  them  to  an  upper  chamber,  where  he  made 
them  all  repose  their  honored  persons  upon  his  sofas. 
He  ordered  up  his  housekeeper  to  make  them  coffee, 
which  he  served  with  his  own  hands,  excusing  its 
hurried  feebleness,  and  he  stood  by,  rubbing  his 
palms  together  and  smiling,  while  they  refreshed 
themselves. 

"  They  need  never  tell  me  again  that  the  Aus- 
trians  are  tyrants,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain  in  undertone 
to  the  consul. 

It  was  not  easy  for  Ferris  to  remind  his  host  ot 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  113 

the  malefactors  ;  but  he  brought  himself  to  this  un- 
graciousness. The  commissary  begged  pardon,  and 
asked  him  to  accompany  him  below,  where  he  con- 
fronted the  accused  and  the  accusers.  The  tragedy 
was  acted  over  again  with  blood-curdling  effective- 
ness by  the  Chiozzotti ;  the  gondoliers  maintaining 
the  calm  of  conscious  innocence. 

Ferris  felt  outraged  by  the  trumped-up  charge 
against  them. 

"  Listen,  you  others  the  prisoners,"  said  the  com- 
missary. "  Your  padrone  is  anxious  to  return  to 
Venice,  and  I  wish  to  inflict  no  further  displeasures 
upon  him.  Restore  their  rope  to  these  honest  men, 
and  go  about  your  business." 

The  injured  gondoliers  spoke  in  low  tones  to- 
gether ;  then  one  of  them  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  went  out.  He  came  back  in  a  moment  and 
laid  a  rope  before  the  commissary. 

"Is  that  the  rope?"  he  asked.  "We  found  it 
floating  down  the  canal,  and  picked  it  up  that  we 
might  give  it  to  the  rightful  owner.  But  now  I 
wish  to  heaven  we  had  let  it  sink  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea." 

"  Oh,  a  beautiful  story !  "  wailed  the  Chiozzoti. 
They  flung  themselves  upon  the  rope,  and  lugged 
it  off  to  their  boat  •  and  the  gondoliers  went  out% 
too. 

The  commissary  turned  to  Ferris  with  an  ami- 
able smile.  "  I  am  sorry  that  those  rogues  should 
tBcape,"  said  the  American. 

ft 


114  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Italian,  "  they  are  poor  fellows 
it  is  a  little  matter ;  I  am  glad  to  have  served 
you." 

He  took  leave  of  his  involuntary  guests  with 
effusion,  following  them  with  a  lantern  to  the  gon- 
dola. 

Mrs.  Vervain,  to  whom  Ferris  gave  an  account 
of  this  trial  as  they  set  out  again  on  their  long-hind- 
ered return,  had  no  mind  save  for  the  magical  effect 
of  his  consular  quality  upon  the  commissary,  and 
accused  him  of  a  vain  and  culpable  modesty. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  diplomatist,  "  there  's  nothing 
like  knowing  just  when  to  produce  your  dignity. 
There  are  some  officials  who  know  too  little,  — 
like  those  guards ;  and  there  are  some  who  know 
too  much,  —  like  the  commissary's  superiors.  But 
he  is  just  in  that  golden  mean  of  ignorance  where 
he  supposes  a  consul  is  a  person  of  importance." 

Mrs.  Vervain  disputed  this,  and  Ferris  submitted 
in  silence.  Presently,  as  they  skirted  the  shore  to 
get  their  bearings  for  the  route  across  the  lagoon,  a 
fierce  voice  in  Venetian  shouted  from  the  darkness, 
"  Indrio,  indrio  !  "  (Back,  back  I)  and  a  gleam  of 
the  moon  through  the  pale,  watery  clouds  revealed 
the  figure  of  a  gendarme  on  the  nearest  point  of 
land.  The  gondoliers  bent  to  their  oars,  and  sent 
the  boat  swiftly  out  into  the  lagoon. 

"  There,  for  example,  is  a  person  who  would  be 
quite  insensible  to  my  greatness,  even  if  I  had  the 
fonsular  seal  in  my  pocket.  To  him  we  are  poaai- 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  115 

ble  smugglers  : l  and  I  must  say,"  he  continued,  tak- 
ing out  his  watch,  and  staring  hard  at  it,  "  that  if  I 
were  a  disinterested  person,  and  heard  his  suspi- 
cion met  with  the  explanation  that  we  were  a  little 
party  out  here  for  pleasure  at  half  past  twelve  P.  M., 
I  should  say  he  was  right.  At  any  rate  we  won't 
engage  him  in  controversy.  Quick,  quick !  "  he 
added  to  the  gondoliers,  glancing  at  the  receding 
shore,  and  then  at  the  first  of  the  lagoon  forts  which 
they  were  approaching.  A  dim  shape  moved  along 
the  top  of  the  wall,  and  seemed  to  linger  and  scru- 
tinize them.  As  they  drew  nearer,  the  challenge, 
"  Wer  da  ?  "  rang  out. 

The  gondoliers  eagerly  answered  with  the  one 
word  of  German  known  to  their  craft,  "  Freunde" 
and  struggled  to  urge  the  boat  forward  ;  the  oar  of 
the  gondolier  in  front  slipped  from  the  high  row- 
lock, and  fell  out  of  his  hand  into  the  water.  The 
gondola  lurched,  and  then  suddenly  ran  aground  on 
the  shallow.  The  sentry  halted,  dropped  his  gun 
from  his  shoulder,  and  ordered  them  to  go  on,  while 
the  gondoliers  clamored  back  in  the  high  key  of 
fear,  and  one  of  them  screamed  out  to  his  passen- 
gers to  do  something,  saying  that,  a  few  weeks 
before,  a  sentinel  had  fired  upon  a  fisherman  and 
killed  him. 

"  What 's  that  he  's  talking  about  ?  "  demanded 
Mr«.  Vervain.  "  If  we  don't  get  on,  it  will  be  that 

*  Under  the  Austrians,  Venice  was  a  free  port^  but  everything  carried 
to  the  mainland  was  liable  to  duty. 


116  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

man's  duty  to  fire  on  us ;  he  has  no  choice,"  she 
Baid,  nerved  and  interested  by  the  presence  of  this 
danger. 

The  gondoliers  leaped  into  the  water  and  tried  to 
push  the  boat  off.  It  would  not  move,  and  without 
warning,  Don  Ippolito,  who  had  sat  silent  since 
they  left  Fusina,  stepped  over  the  side  of  the  gon- 
dola, and  thrusting  an  oar  under  its  bottom  lifted  it 
free  of  the  shallow. 

"  Oh,  how  very  unnecessary !  "  cried  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, as  the  priest  and  the  gondoliers  clambered 
back  into  the  boat.  "He  will  take  his  death  of 
cold." 

"  It 's  ridiculous,"  said  Ferris.  "  You  ought  to 
have  told  these  worthless  rascals  what  to  do,  Don 
Ippolito.  You've  got  yourself  wet  for  nothing. 
It 's  too  bad  !  " 

"  It  's  nothing,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  taking  his 
seat  on  the  little  prow  deck,  and  quietly  dripping 
where  the  water  would  not  incommode  the  others. 

"  Oh,  here ! "  cried  Mrs.  Vervain,  gathering 
some  shawls  together,  "  make  him  wrap  those  about 
him.  He  '11  die,  I  know  he  will  —  with  that  reek- 
ing skirt  of  his.  If  you  must  go  into  the  water,  I 
wish  you  had  worn  your  abbate's  dress.  How  could 
you,  Don  Ippolito  ?  " 

The  gondoliers  set  their  oars,  but  before  they 
had  given  a  stroke,  they  were  arrested  by  a  sharp 
M  Halt  I "  from  the  fort.  Another  figure  had 
oined  the  sentry,  and  stood  looking  at  them. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  117 

"Well,"  said  Ferris,  "now  what,  I  wonder? 
That 's  an  officer.  If  I  had  a  little  German  about 
me,  I  might  state  the  situation  to  him." 

He  felt  a  light  touch  on  his  arm.  "  I  can  speak 
German,"  said  Florida  timidly. 

"  Then  you  had  better  speak  it  now,"  said  Fer- 
ris. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  in  a  steady  voice  briefly 
explained  the  whole  affair.  The  figures  listened 
motionless ;  then  the  last  comer  politely  replied, 
begging  her  to  be  in  no  uneasiness,  made  her  a 
shadowy  salute,  and  vanished.  The  sentry  re- 
sumed his  walk,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  them. 

"  Brava !  "  said  Ferris,  while  Mrs.  Vervain  bab- 
bled her  satisfaction,  "  I  will  buy  a  German  Ollen- 
dorff  to-morrow.  The  language  is  indispensable  to 
a  pleasure  excursion  in  the  lagoon." 

Florida  made  no  reply,  but  devoted  herself  to  re- 
storing her  mother  to  that  state  of  defense  against 
the  discomforts  of  the  time  and  place,  which  the 
common  agitation  had  impaired.  She  seemed  to 
have  no  sense  of  the  presence  of  any  one  else.  Don 
Ippolito  did  not  speak  again  save  to  protect  himself 
from  the  anxieties  and  reproaches  of  Mrs.  Vervain, 
renewed  and  reiterated  at  intervals.  She  drowsed 
after  a  while,  and  whenever  she  woke  she  thought 
they  had  just  touched  her  own  landing.  By  fits  it 
Was  cloudy  and  moonlight;  they  began  to  meet 
peasants'  boats  going  to  the  Rialto  market ;  at  last, 
they  entered  the  Canal  of  the  Zattere,  then  they 


118  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

slipped  into  a  narrow  way,  and  presently  stopped 
at  Mrs.  Vervain's  gate ;  this  time  she  had  not  ex- 
pected it.  Don  Ippolito  gave  her  his  hand,  and 
entered  the  garden  with  hei^  while  Ferris  lingered 
behind  with  Florida,  helping  her  put  together  the 
wraps  strewn  about  the  gondola. 

"  Wait !  "  she  commanded,  as  they  moved  up  the 
garden  walk.  "  I  want  to  speak  with  you  about 
Don  Ippolito.  What  shall  I  do  to  him  for  my 
rudeness  ?  You  must  tell  me  —  you  shall,"  she 
said  in  a  fierce  whisper,  gripping  the  arm  which 
Ferris  had  given  to  help  her  up  the  landing-stairs. 
"  You  are  —  older  than  I  am  !  " 

44  Thanks.  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to  say 
wiser.  I  should  think  your  own  sense  of  justice, 
your  own  sense  of  "  — 

•*  Decency.  Say  it,  say  it ! "  cried  the  girl 
passionately ;  "it  was  indecent,  indecent  —  that 

was  it  I"   ' 

—  "would  tell  you  what  to  do,"  concluded  the 
painter  dryly.  , 

She  flung  away  the  arm  to  which  she  had  been 
clinging,  and  ran  to  where  the  priest  stood  with  her 
mother  at  the  foot  of  the  terrace  stairs.  "  Don 
Ippolito,"  she  cried,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am 
lorry ;  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon  —  how  can  you 
tver  forgive  me  ?  —  for  what  I  said." 

She  instinctively  stretched  her  hand  towards  him. 

44  Oh !  "  said  the  priest,  with  an  indescribable 
long,  trembling  sigh.  He  caught  her  hand  in  hi§ 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  119 

held  it  tight,  and  then  pressed  it  for  an  instant 
against  his  breast. 

Ferris  made  a  little  start  forward. 

"  Now,  that 's  right,  Florida,"  said  her  mother,  as 
the  four  stood  in  the  pale,  estranging  moonlight. 
"  I  'm  sure  Don  Ippolito  can't  cherish  any  resent- 
ment. If  he  does,  he  must  come  in  and  wash  it  out 
with  a  glass  of  wine  —  that  's  a  good  old  fashion. 
I  want  you  to  have  the  wine  at  any  rate,  Don  Ip- 
polito ;  it  '11  keep  you  from  taking  cold.  You 
really  must." 

u  Thanks,  madama ;  I  cannot  lose  more  time, 
now  ;  I  must  go  home  at  once.  Good  night." 

Before  Mrs.  Vervain  could  frame  a  protest,  or  lay 
hold  of  him,  he  bowed  and  hurried  out  of  the  land- 
gate. 

"  How  perfectly  absurd  for  him  to  get  into  the 
water  in  that  way,"  she  said,  looking  mechanically 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  had  vanished. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Vervain,  it  isn't  best  to  be  too 
grateful  to  people,"  said  Ferris,  "  but  I  think  we 
must  allow  that  if  we  were  in  any  danger,  sticking 
there  in  the  mud,  Don  Ippolito  got  us  out  of  it  by 
putting  his  shoulder  to  the  oar." 

"  Of  course,"  assented  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  In  fact,"  continued  Ferris,  "  I  suppose  we  may 
»ay  that,  under  Providence,  we  probably  owe  our 
lives  to  Don  Ippolito's  self-sacrifice  and  Miss  Ver- 
rain's  knowledge  of  German.  At  any  rate,  it  '• 
rhat  7  shall  always  maintain,," 


120  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Mother,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  go 
in  ? "  asked  Florida,  gently.  Her  gentleness  ig- 
nored the  presence,  the  existence  of  Ferris.  "  I  'm 
afraid  you  will  be  sick  after  all  this  fatigue." 

"  There,  Mrs.  Vervain,  it  '11  be  no  use  offering 
me  a  glass  of  wine.  I  'm  sent  away,  you  see,"  said 
Ferris.  "  And  Miss  Vervain  is  quite  right.  Good 
night." 

"Oh — good  night,  Mr.  Ferris,"  said  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, giving  her  hand.  "  Thank  you  so  much." 

Florida  did  not  look  towards  him.  She  gath- 
ered her  mother's  shawl  about  her  shoulders  for  the 
twentieth  time  that  day,  and  softly  urged  her  in 
doors,  while  Ferris  let  himself  out  into  the  campo. 


IX. 

FLORIDA    began  to    prepare  the    bed  for    hei 

mother's  lying  down. 

"  What  are  you  doing  that  for,  my  dear  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Vervain.  "  I  can't  go  to  bed  at  once." 

"  But  mother  "  — 

"  No,  Florida.  And  I  mean  it.  You  are  too 
headstrong.  I  should  think  you  would  see  yourself 
how  you  suffer  in  the  end  by  giving  way  to  your 
violent  temper.  What  a  day  you  have  made  for 
as!" 

"  I  was  very  wrong,"  murmured  the  proud  girl, 
meekly. 

"  And  then  the  mortification  of  an  apology ;  you 
might  have  spared  yourself  that." 

"  It  did  n't  mortify  me ;  I  did  n't  care  for  it." 

"  No,  I  really  believe  you  are  too  haughty  to 
mind  humbling  yourself.  And  Don  Ippolito  had 
been  so  uniformly  kind  to  us.  I  begin  to  believe 
Jiat  Mr.  Ferris  caught  your  true  character  in  that 
sketch.  But  your  pride  will  be  broken  some  day, 
Florida." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  help  you  undress,  mother  ? 
You  can  talk  to  me  while  you  're  undressing.  Yon 
vrast  try  to  get  some  rest." 

''Yes,  I  am  all   unstrung.     Why  couldn't  yof 


122  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

have  let  him  come  in  and  talk  awhile  ?  It  would 
have  been  the  best  way  to  get  me  quieted  down. 
But  no ;  you  must  always  have  your  own  way 
Don't  twitch  me,  my  dea'' ;  I  'd  rather  undress  my- 
aelf.  You  pretend  to  be  very  careful  of  me.  1 
wonder  if  you  really  care  for  me." 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  are  all  I  have  in  the  world  I ' 
Mrs.  Vervain  began  to  whimper.     "  You  talk  as 
if  I  were  any  better  off.     Have  I  anybody  besides 
you  ?     And  I  have  lost  so  many." 

"  Don't  think  of  those  things  now,  mother." 
Mrs.  Vervain  tenderly  kissed  the  young  girl. 
"You  are  good  to  your  mother.  Don  Ippolito 
was  right ;  no  one  ever  saw  you  offer  me  disrespect 
cr  unkindness.  There,  there  !  Don't  cry,  my  dar- 
ling. I  think  I  had  better  lie  down,  and  I  '11  let 
you  undress  me." 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  helped  into  bed,  and 
Florida  went  softly  about  the  room,  putting  it  in 
order,  and  drawing  the  curtains  closer  to  keep  out 
the  near  dawn.  Her  mother  talked  a  little  while, 
and  presently  fell  from  incoherence  to  silence,  and 
eo  to  sleep. 

Florida  looked  hesitatingly  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then  set  her  candle  on  the  floor  and  sank 
wearily  into  an  arm-chair  beside  the  bed.  Her 
hands  fell  into  her  lap;  her  head  drooped  sadly 
forward;  the  light  flung  the  shadow  of  her  face 
grotesquely  exaggerated  and  foreshortened  upos 
the  ceiling. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  128 

By  and  by  a  bird  piped  in  the  garden ;  the  shriek 
of  a  swallow  made  itself  heard  from  a  distance; 
the  vernal  day  was  beginning  to  stir  from  the  light, 
brief  drowse  of  the  vernal  night.  A  crown  of  angry 
red  formed  upon  the  candle  wick,  which  toppled  over 
in  the  socket  and  guttered  out  with  a  sharp  hiss. 

Florida  started  from  her  chair.  A  streak  of  sun- 
shine pierced  shutter  and  curtain.  Her  mother 
was  supporting  herself  on  one  elbow  in  the  bed, 
and  looking  at  her  as  if  she  had  just  called  to  her. 

"  Mother,  did  you  speak?  "  asked  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Vervain  turned  her  face  away ;  she  sighed 
deeply,  stretched  her  thin  hands  on  the  pillow,  and 
seemed  to  be  sinking,  sinking  down  through  the 
bed.  She  ceased  to  breathe  and  lay  in  a  dead 
faint. 

Florida  felt  rather  than  saw  it  all.  She  did  not 
cry  out  nor  call  for  help.  She  brought  water  and 
cologne,  and  bathed  her  mother's  face,  and  then 
chafed  her  hands.  Mrs.  Vervain  slowly  revived  ; 
she  opened  her  eyes,  then  closed  them ;  she  did  not 
speak,  but  after  a  while  she  began  to  fetch  her 
breath  with  the  long  and  even  respirations  of  sleep. 

Florida  noiselessly  opened  the  door,  and  met 
the  servant  with  a  tray  of  coffee.  She  put  her 
finger  to  her  lip,  and  motioned  her  not  to  enter, 
asking  in  a  whisper :  "  What  time  is  it,  Nina  ?  I 
forgot  to  wind  my  watch." 

"  It 's  nine  o'clock,  signorina ;  and  I  thought 
you  would  be  tired  this  morning,  and  would  like 


124  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 

your  coffee  in  bed.  Oh,  misericordia  !  "  cried  the 
girl,  still  in  whisper,  with  a  glance  through  the 
doorway,  "  you  have  n't  been  in  bed  at  all !  " 

My  mother  doesn't  seem  well.  I  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  fell  asleep  in  my  chair  without 
knowing  it." 

"  Ah,  poor  little  thing !  Then  you  must  drink 
your  coffee  at  once.  It  refreshes." 

44  Yes,  yes,"  said  Florida,  closing  the  door,  and 
pointing  to  a  table  in  the  next  room,  "  put  it  down 
here.  I  will  serve  myself,  Nina.  Go  call  the  gon- 
dola, please.  I  am  going  out,  at  once,  and  I  want 
you  to  go  with  me.  Tell  Checa  to  come  here  and 
stay  with  my  mother  till  I  come  back." 

She  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee  with  a  trembling 
hand,  and  hastily  drank  it ;  then  bathing  her  eyes, 
she  went  to  the  glass  and  bestowed  a  touch  or  two 
upon  yesterday's  toilet,  studied  the  effect  a  moment, 
and  turned  away.  She  ran  back  for  another  look, 
and  the  next  moment  she  was  walking  down  to 
the  water-gate,  where  she  found  Nina  waiting  her 
in  the  gondola. 

A  rapid  course  brought  them  to  Ferris's  landing. 
44  Ring,"  she  said  to  the  gondolier,  44  and  say  that 
one  of  the  American  ladies  wishes  to  see  the  con- 
sul." 

Ferns  was  standing  on  the  balcony  over  her, 
where  he  had  been  watching  her  approach  in  mute 
wonder.  44  Why,  Miss  Vervain,"  he  called  down, 
«  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?  " 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  125 

**  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  see  you,"  »aid  Flor- 
ida, looking  up  with  a  wistful  face. 

44 1  '11  come  down." 

"Yea,  please.  Or  no,  I  had  better  come  up. 
Yes,  Nina  and  I  will  come  up." 

Ferris  met  them  at  the  lower  door  and  led  them 
to  his  apartment.  Nina  sat  down  in  the  outer 
room,  and  Florida  followed  the  painter  into  his  stu- 
dio. Though  her  face  was  so  wan,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  never  seen  it  lovelier,  and  he  had 
a  strange  pride  in  her  being  there,  though  the 
disorder  of  the  place  ought  to  have  humbled  him. 
She  looked  over  it  with  a  certain  childlike,  timid 
curiosity,  and  something  of  that  lofty  compassion 
with  which  young  ladies  regard  the  haunts  of  men 
when  they  come  into  them  by  chance ;  in  doing 
this  she  had  a  haughty,  slow  turn  of  the  head  that 
fascinated  him. 

44 1  hope,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  mind  the  smell," 
which  was  a  mingled  one  of  oil-colors  and  tobacco- 
gmoke.  44  The  woman  's  putting  my  office  to  rights, 
and  it 's  all  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  So  I  have  to  bring 
you  in  here." 

Florida  sat  down  on  a  chair  fronting  the  easel, 
and  found  herself  looking  into  the  sad  eyes  of  Don 
Ippolito.  Ferris  brusquely  turned  the  back  of  the 
canvas  toward  her.  44 1  did  n't  mean  you  to  see 
that.  It  isn't  ready  to  show,  yet,"  he  said,  and 
then  he  stood  expectantly  before  her.  He  waited 
por  her  to  speak,  for  he  never  knew  how  to  take 


126  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Miss  Vervain  ;  he  was  willing  enough  to  make  light 
of  her  grand  moods,  but  now  she  was  too  evidently 
unhappy  for  mocking  ;  at  the  same  time  he  did  not 
care  to  invoke  a  snub  by  a  prematurely  sympathetic 
demeanor.  His  mind  ran  on  the  events  of  the  day 
before,  and  he  thought  this  visit  probably  related 
somehow  to  Don  Ippolito.  But  his  visitor  did  not 
speak,  and  at  last  he  said :  "  I  hope  there  's  noth- 
ing wrong  at  home,  Miss  Vervain.  It 's  rather  odd 
to  have  yesterday,  last  night,  and  next  morning  all 
run  together  as  they  have  been  for  me  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours.  I  trust  Mrs.  Vervain  is  turn- 
ing the  whole  thing  into  a  good  solid  oblivion." 

"  It 's  about  —  it 's  about  —  I  came  to  see  you  " — 
said  Florida,  hoarsely.  "  I  mean,"  she  hurried  on 
to  say,  "  that  I  want  to  ask  you  who  is  the  best 
doctor  here?" 

Then  it  was  not  about  Don  Ippolito.  "  Is  your 
mother  sick  ?  "  asked  Ferris,  eagerly.  "  She  must 
have  been  fearfully  tired  by  that  unlucky  expedi- 
tion of  ours.  I  hope  there  's  nothing  serious  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  But  she  is  not  well.  She  is  very 
frail,  you  know.  You  must  have  noticed  how  frail 
she  is,"  said  Florida,  tremulously. 

Ferris  had  noticed  that  all  his  countrywomen, 
past  their  girlhood,  seemed  to  be  sick,  he  did  not 
know  how  or  why  ;  he  supposed  it  was  all  right,  it 
was  so  common.  In  Mrs.  Vervain's  case,  though 
the  talked  a  great  deal  about  her  ill-health,  ho  had 
noticed  it  rather  less  than  usual,  she  had  so  great 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  127 

ipirit.  He  recalled  now  that  he  had  thought  her 
at  times  rather  a  shadowy  presence,  and  that  occa- 
sionally it  had  amused  him  that  so  slight  a  structure 
should  hang  together  as  it  did  —  not  only  success- 
fully, but  triumphantly. 

He  said  yes,  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Vervain  wag 
not  strong,  and  Florida  continued  :  "  It 's  only  ad- 
vice that  I  want  for  her,  but  I  think  we  had  better 
see  some  one  —  or  know  some  one  that  we  could  go 
to  in  need.  We  are  so  far  from  any  one  we  know, 
or  help  of  any  kind."  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
account  to  herself,  rather  than  to  Ferris,  for  what 
she  was  doing.  "  We  must  n't  let  anything  pass 
unnoticed "  .  .  .  .  She  lorked  at  him  entreat- 
ingly,  but  a  shadow,  as  of  somt,  Bounding  memory, 
passed  over  her  face,  and  she  said  i.  *  more. 

"  I  '11  go  with  you  to  a  doctor's,"  said  Ferris, 
kindly. 

"  No,  please,  I  won't  trouble  you." 

"  It 's  no  trouble." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  with  me,  please.  I  'd 
rather  go  alone."  Ferris  looked  at  her  perplexedly, 
as  she  rose.  "  Just  give  me  the  address,  and  I  shall 
manage  best  by  myself.  I  'm  used  to  doing  it." 

44  As  you  like.  Wait  a  moment."  Ferris  wrote 
the  address.  "  There,"  he  said,  giving  it  to  her ; 
*  but  is  n't  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

44  Yes,"  answered  Florida  with  awkward  hesita- 
tion, and  a  half -defiant,  half-imploring  look  at  him* 
"You  must  have  all  sorts  of  people  applying  to 


128  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

you,  as  a  consul ;  and  you  look  after  their  affairs  — 
and  try  to  forget  them  "  — 

"Well?"  said  Ferris. 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  remember  that  I  Ve  asked 
this  favor  of  you  ;  that  you  'd  consider  it  a  "  — 

"  Consular  service  ?  With  all  my  heart,"  an- 
§wered  Ferris,  thinking  for  the  third  or  fourth  time 
how  very  young  Miss  Vervain  was. 

"  You  are  very  good ;  you  are  kinder  than  I  have 
any  right,"  said  Florida,  smiling  piteously.  "  I  only 
mean,  don't  speak  of  it  to  my  mother.  Not,"  she 
added,  "  but  what  I  want  her  to  know  everything  I 
do ;  but  it  would  worry  her  if  she  thought  I  was 
anxious  about  her.  Oh  I  I  wish  I  would  n't." 

She  began  a  hasty  search  for  her  handkerchief ; 
he  saw  her  lips  tremble  and  his  soul  trembled  with 
them. 

In  another  moment,  "  Good-morning,"  she  said 
briskly,  with  a  sort  of  airy  sob,  "  I  don't  want  you 
to  come  down,  please." 

She  drifted  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs, 
the  servant-maid  falling  into  her  wake. 

Ferris  filled  his  pipe  and  went  out  on  his  balcony 
again,  and  stood  watching  the  gondola  in  its  course 
toward  the  address  he  had  given,  and  smoking 
thoughtfully.  It  was  really  the  same  girl  who  had 
given  poor  Don  Ippolito  that  cruel  slap  in  the  face, 
yesterday.  But  that  seemed  no  more  out  of  reason 
than  her  sudden,  generous,  exaggerated  remorse 
both  were  of  a  piece  with  her  coming  to  him  fo» 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  129 

help  now,  holding  him  at  a  distance,  flinging  her- 
»elf  upon  his  sympathy,  and  then  trying  to  snub 
him,  and  breaking  down  in  the  effort.  It  was  all 
of  a  piece,  and  the  piece  was  bad  ;  yes,  she  had  an 
ugly  temper ;  and  yet  she  had  magnanimous  traits 
too.  These  contradictions,  which  in  his  reverie  he 
felt  rather  than  formulated,  made  him  smile,  as  he 
stood  on  his  balcony  bathed  by  the  morning  air  and 
sunlight,  in  fresh,  strong  ignorance  of  the  whole 
mystery  of  women's  nerves.  These  caprices  even 
charmed  him.  He  reflected  that  he  had  gone  on 
doing  the  Vervains  one  favor  after  another  in  spite 
of  Florida's  childish  petulancies ;  and  he  resolved 
that  he  would  not  stop  now ;  her  whims  should  bo 
nothing  to  him,  as  they  had  been  nothing,  hitherto. 
It  is  flattering  to  a  man  to  be  indispensable  to  a 
woman  so  long  as  he  is  not  obliged  to  it ;  Miss  Ver- 
vain's dependent  relation  to  himself  in  this  visit 
gave  her  a  grace  in  Ferris's  eyes  which  she  had 
wanted  before. 

In  the  mean  time  he  saw  her  gondola  stop,  turn 
round,  and  come  back  to  the  canal  that  bordered 
the  Vervain  garden. 

"  Another  change  of  mind,"  thought  Ferris,  com- 
placently ;  and  rising  superior  to  the  whole  fitful 
Bex,  he  released  himself  from  uneasiness  on  Mrs. 
Vervain's  account.  But  in  the  evening  he  went  to 
iisk  after  her.  He  first  sent  his  card  to  Florida, 
having  written  on  it,  "  I  hope  Mrs.  Vervain  is  bet- 
ter. Don't  let  me  come  in  if  it's  any  disturb 
9 


180  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION! 

Mice."     He  looked  for  a  moment  at  what  he  had 
written,  dimly  conscious  that  it  was   patronizing 
and  when  he   entered  he   saw  that  Miss  Vervain 
stood  on  the   defensive  and  from  some  willfulness 
meant  to  make  him  feel  that  he  was  presumptuous 
in  coming  ;  it  did  not  comfort  him  to  consider  that 
she  was  very  young.    "  Mother  will  be  in  directly, 
said  Florida  in  a  tone  that  relegated  their  morning's 
interview  to  the  age  of  fable. 

Mrs.  Vervain  came  in  smiling  and  cordial,  appar- 
ently better  and  not  worse  for  yesterday's  misad- 
ventures. 

"  Oh,  I  pick  up  quickly,"  she  explained.  "  I  'm 
an  old  campaigner,  you  know.  Perhaps  a  little  too 
old,  now.  Years  do  make  a  difference  ;  and  you  '11 
find  it  out  as  you  get  on,  Mr.  Ferris." 

44 1  suppose  so,"  said  Ferris,  not  caring  to  have 
Mrs.  Vervain  treat  him  so  much  like  a  boy.  "  Even 
at  twenty-six  I  found  it  pleasant  to  take  a  nap  this 
afternoon.  How  does  one  stand  it  at  seventeen, 
Miss  Vervain  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  n't  felt  the  need  of  sleep,"  replied  Flor- 
ida, indifferently,  and  he  felt  shelved,  as  an  old  fel- 
low. 

He  had  an  empty,  frivolous  visit,  to  his  thinking. 
Mrs.  Vervain  asked  if  he  had  seen  Don  Ippolito, 
»nd  wondered  that  the  priest  had  not  come  about 
nil  day.  She  told  a  long  story,  and  at  the  end 
tapped  herself  on  the  mouth  with  her  fan  to  pun- 
»h  a  yawn. 

Ferris  rose  to  go.     Mrs.  Vervain  wondered  agai* 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  1S1 

ji  the  same  words  why  Don  Ippolito  had  not  beeij 
Rear  them  all  day. 

"  Because  he  's  a  wise  man,"  said  Ferris  with  bit- 
terness, "  and  knows  wher  to  time  his  visits."  Mrs. 
Vervain  did  not  notice  his  bitterness,  but  something 
made  Florida  follow  him  to  the  outer  door. 

"  Why,  it 's  moonlight !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  and 
she  glanced  at  him  as  though  she  had  some  purpose 
of  atonement  in  her  mind. 

But  he  would  not  have  it.  "  Yes,  there  'a  a 
moon,"  he  said  moodily.  "  Good-night." 

"  Good  night,"  answered  Florida,  and  she  impul- 
sively offered  him  her  hand.  He  thought  that  it 
shook  in  his,  but  it  was  probably  the  agitation  of 
his  own  nerves. 

A  soreness  that  had  been  lifted  from  his  heart, 
came  back ;  he  walked  home  disappointed  and  de- 
feated, he  hardly  knew  why  or  in  what.  He  did 
not  laugh  now  to  think  how  she  had  asked  him  that 
morning  to  forget  her  coming  to  him  for  help ;  he 
was  outraged  that  he  should  have  been  repaid  in 
this  sort,  and  the  rebuff  with  which  his  sympathy 
L^d  just  been  met  was  vulgar ;  there  was  no  other 
name  for  it  but  vulgarity.  Yet  he  could  not  relate 
this  quality  to  the  face  of  the  young  girl  as  he  con- 
stantly beheld  it  in  his  homeward  walk.  It  did  not 
defy  him  or  repulse  him ;  it  looked  up  at  him  wist- 
fully as  from  the  gondola  that  morning.  Neverthe- 
less he  hardened  his  heart.  The  Vervains  should 
pee  him  next  when  they  had  sent  for  hin?.  Aftei 
•11,  one  is  not  so  very  old  at  twenty-six. 


*  DON  IPPOLITO  has  come,  signorina,"  said  Nina, 
the  next  morning,  approaching  Florida,  where  she 
Bat  in  an  attitude  of  listless  patience,  in  the  garden. 

"  Don  Ippolito ! "  echoed  the  young  girl  in  a 
weary  tone.  She  rose  and  went  into  the  house,  and 
they  met  with  the  constraint  which  was  but  too  nat- 
ural after  the  events  of  their  last  parting.  It  is 
hard  to  tell  which  has  most  to  overcome  in  such  a 
case,  the  forgiver  or  the  forgiven.  Pardon  rankles 
even  in  a  generous  soul,  and  the  memory  of  having 
pardoned  embarrasses  the  sensitive  spirit  before  the 
object  of  its  clemency,  humbling  and  making  it 
ashamed.  It  would  be  well,  I  suppose,  if  there  need 
be  nothing  of  the  kind  between  human  creatures, 
who  cannot  sustain  such  a  relation  without  mutual 
distrust.  It  is  not  so  ill  with  them  when  apart,  but 
when  they  meet  they  must  be  cold  and  shy  at  first. 

"  Now  I  see  what  you  two  are  thinking  about," 
said  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  a  faint  blush  tinged  the 
cheek  of  the  priest  as  she  thus  paired  him  off  with 
her  daughter.  "  You  are  thinking  about  what  hap- 
pened the  other  day ;  and  you  had  better  forget  it. 
There  is  no  use  brooding  over  these  matters.  Dear 
me  I  if  I  had  stopped  to  brood  over  every  little 
Unpleasant  thing  that  happened,  I  wonder  where  I 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  133 

should  be  now  ?  By  the  way,  where  were  you  all 
day  yesterday,  Don  Ippolito  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  come  to  disturb  you  because  I  thought 
you  must  be  very  tired.  Besides  I  was  quite  busy." 

"  Oh  yes,  those  inventions  of  yours.  I  think  yen 
are  so  ingenious  !  But  you  must  n't  apply  too 
closely.  Now  really,  yesterday,  —  after  all  you  had 
been  through,  it  was  too  much  for  the  brain."  She 
tapped  herself  on  the  forehead  with  her  fan. 

"  I  was  not  busy  with  my  inventions,  madama," 
answered  Don  Ippolito,  who  sat  in  the  womanish 
attitude  priests  get  from  their  drapery,  and  fingered 
the  cord  round  his  three-cornered  hat.  "  I  have 
scarcely  touched  them  of  late.  But  our  parish  takes 
part  in  the  procession  of  Corpus  Domini  in  the  Pi- 
azza, and  I  had  my  share  of  the  preparations." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure !  When  is  it  to  be  ?  We  must 
all  go.  Our  Nina  has  been  telling  Florida  of  the 
grand  sights,  —  little  children  dressed  up  like  John 
the  Baptist,  leading  lambs.  I  suppose  it's  a  great 
event  with  you." 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  opened 
both  his  hands,  so  that  his  hat  slid  to  the  floor, 
bumping  and  tumbling  some  distance  away.  He 
recovered  it  and  sat  down  again.  "  It 's  an  observ- 
unce,"  he  said  coldly. 

"  And  shall  you  be  in  the  procession  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  there  witn  the  other  priests  of  my 
parish." 

"  Delightful  I "  cried  Mrs.  Vervain.     "  We 


134  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

be  looking  out  for  you.  I  shall  feel  greatly  honored 
to  think  I  actually  know  some  one  in  the  procession. 
I'm  going  to  give  you  a  little  nod.  You  won't 
think  it  very  wrong  ?  " 

She  saved  him  from  the  embarrassment  he  might 
have  felt  in  replying,  by  an  abrupt  lapse  from  all 
apparent  interest  in  the  subject.  She  turned  to  her 
daughter,  and  said  with  a  querulous  accent,  "  I 
wish  you  would  throw  the  afghan  over  my  feet, 
Florida,  and  make  me  a  little  comfortable  before 
you  begin  your  reading  this  morning."  At  the  same 
time  she  feebly  disposed  herself  among  the  sofa 
cushions  on  which  she  reclined,  and  waited  for  some 
final  touches  from  her  daughter.  Then  she  said, 
"  I  'm  just  going  to  close  my  eyes,  but  I  shall  hear 
every  word.  You  are  getting  a  beautiful  accent, 
my  dear,  I  know  you  are.  I  should  think  Goldoni 
must  have  a  very  smooth,  agreeable  style  ;  has  n't 
he  now,  in  Italian  ?  " 

They  began  to  read  the  comedy  ;  after  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes  Mrs.  Vervain  opened  her  eyes  and 
said,  "  But  before  you  commence,  Florida,  I  wish 
you  'd  play  a  little,  to  get  me  quieted  down.  I  feel 
BO  very  flighty.  I  suppose  it 's  this  sirocco.  Aud 
I  believe  I  '11  lie  down  in  the  next  room." 

Florida  followed  her  to  repeat  the  arrangements 
for  her  comfort.  Then  she  returned,  and  sitting 
4own  at  the  piano  struck  with  a  sort  of  soft  firmness 
»  few  low,  soothing  chords,  out  of  which  a  lulling 
feeiody  grew.  With  her  fingers  still  resting  on  tha 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  185 

keys    slie    turned   her   stately  head,  and   glanced 
throagh  the  open  door  at  her  mother. 

"  Don  Ippolito,"  she  asked  softly,  "  is  there  any* 
thing  in  the  air  of  Venice  that  makes  people  very 
drowsy  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  heard  that,  madamigella." 

"  I  wonder,"  continued  the  young  girl  absently, 
"  why  my  mother  wants  to  sleep  so  much." 

"  Perhaps  she  has  not  recovered  from  the  fatigues 
of  the  other  night,"  suggested  the  priest. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Florida,  sadly  looking  toward 
her  mother's  door. 

She  turned  again  to  the  instrument,  and  let  her 
fingers  wander  over  the  keys,  with  a  drooping  head. 
Presently  she  lifted  her  face,  and  smoothed  back 
from  her  temples  some  straggling  tendrils  of  hair. 
Without  looking  at  the  priest  she  asked  with  the 
child-like  bluntness  that  characterized  her,  "  Why 
don't  you  like  to  walk  in  the  procession  of  Corpus 
Domini  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito's  color  came  and  went,  and  he  an- 
swered evasively,  "  I  have  not  said  that  I  did  not 
like  to  do  so." 

"  No,  that  is  true,"  said  Florida,  letting  her 
fingers  drop  again  on  the  keys. 

Don  Ippolito  rose  from  the  sofa  where  he  had 
been  sitting  beside  her  while  they  read,  and  walked 
the  length  of  the  room.  Then  he  came  towards  he* 
%nd  said  meekly,  "  Madamigella,  I  did  not  mean  to 
repel  any  interest  you  feel  in  me.  But  it  wan  a 


136  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

itrange  question  to  ask  a  priest,  as  I  remembered  I 
was  when  you  asked  it." 

"  Don't  you  always  remember  that  ?  "  demanded 
the  girl,  still  without  turning  her  head. 

"  No ;  sometimes  I  am  suffered  to  forget  it,"  he 
said  with  a  tentative  accent. 

She  did  not  respond,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  walked  away  in  silence.  She  let  her  hands  fall 
into  her  lap,  and  sat  in  an  attitude  of  expectation. 
As  Don  Ippolito  came  near  her  again  he  paused  a 
second  time. 

"  It  is  in  this  house  that  I  forget  my  priesthood," 
he  began,  "  and  it  is  the  first  of  your  kindnesses 
that  you  suffer  me  to  do  so,  your  good  mother, 
there,  and  you.  How  shall  I  repay  you  ?  It  cut 
me  to  the  heart  that  you  should  ask  forgiveness  of 
me  when  you  did,  though  I  was  hurt  by  your 
rebuke.  Oh,  had  you  not  the  right  to  rebuke  me 
if  I  abused  the  delicate  unreserve  with  which  you 
had  always  treated  me  ?  But  believe  me,  I  meant 
no  wrong,  then." 

His  voice  shook,  and  Florida  broke  in,  "  You  did 
nothing  wrong.  It  was  I  who  was  cruel  for  no 
cause." 

"  No,  no.  You  shall  not  say  that,"  he  returned. 
•*And  why  should  I  have  cared  for  a  few  words, 
when  all  your  acts  had  expressed  a  trust  of  me  that 
Is  like  heaven  to  my  soul  ?  " 

She  turned  now  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  went 
"Ah,  I  see  you  do  not  understand!  How 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  187 

could  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  priest  in  tibia 
most  unhappy  city  ?  To  be  haunted  by  the  strict 
espionage  of  all  your  own  class,  to  be  shunned  as  a 
spy  by  all  who  are  not  of  it !  But  you  two  have 
not  put  up  that  barrier  which  everywhere  shuts  me 
out  from  my  kind.  You  have  been  willing  to  see 
the  man  in  me,  and  to  let  me  forget  the  priest." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Don  Ippolito. 
I  am  only  a  foreigner,  a  girl,  and  I  am  very  igno- 
rant of  these  things,"  said  Florida  with  a  slight 
alarm.  "  I  am  afraid  that  you  may  be  saying 
what  you  will  be  sorry  for." 

"  Oh  never  !  Do  not  fear  for  me  if  I  am  frank 
with  you.  It  is  my  refuge  from  despair." 

The  passionate  vibration  of  his  voice  increased,  as 
if  it  must  break  in  tears.  She  glanced  towards  the 
other  room  with  a  little  movement  or  stir. 

"  Ah,  you  need  n't  be  afraid  of  listening  to  me ! " 
cried  the  priest  bitterly. 

fct  I  will  not  wake  her,"  said  Florida  calmly,  after 
an  instant. 

"  See  how  you  speak  the  thing  you  mean,  always, 
always,  always !  You  could  not  deny  that  you 
meant  to  wake  her,  for  you  have  the  life-long  habit 
af  the  truth.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  the 
life-long  habit  of  a  lie  ?  It  is  to  be  a  priest.  Do 
you  know  what  it  is  to  seem,  to  say,  to  do,  the 
thing  you  are  not,  think  not,  will  not  ?  To  leave 
what  you  believe  unspoken,  what  you  will  undone, 
what  you  are  unknown  ?  It  is  to  be  a  priest !  n 


188  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 

Don  Ippolito  spoke  in  Italian,  and  he  uttered 
these  words  in  a  voice  carefully  guarded  from  every 
listener  but  the  one  before  his  face.  "  Do  you 
know  what  it  is  when  such  a  moment  as  this  comes, 
and  you  would  fling  away  the  whole  fabric  of  false- 
hood that  has  clothed  your  life — do  you  know  what 
it  is  to  keep  still  so  much  of  it  as  will  help  you 
to  unmask  silently  and  secretly  ?  It  is  to  be  a 
priest !  " 

His  voice  had  lost  its  vehemence,  and  his  manner 
was  strangely  subdued  and  cold.  The  sort  of 
gentle  apathy  it  expressed,  together  with  a  certain 
sad,  impersonal  surprise  at  the  difference  between 
his  own  and  the  happier  fortune  with  which  he  con- 
trasted it,  was  more  touching  than  any  tragic  dem- 
onstration. 

As  if  she  felt  the  fascination  of  the  pathos  which 
she  could  not  fully  analyze,  the  young  girl  sat  silent. 
After  a  tune,  in  which  she  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
think  it  all  out,  she  asked  in  a  low,  deep  murmur : 
"  Why  did  you  become  a  priest,  then  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  said  Don  Ippolito.  "  I  will 
i  ot  trouble  you  with  it  now.  Some  other  time." 

"  No  ;  now,"  answered  Florida,  in  English.  "  If 
you  hate  so  to  be  a  priest,  I  can't  understand  why 
you  should  have  allowed  yourself  to  become  one. 
We  should  be  very  unhappy  if  we  could  not  respect 
you,  —  not  trust  you  as  we  have  done;  and  how 
could  we,  if  we  knew  you  were  not  true  to  younaU 
In  being  what  you  are  ?  " 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  139 

"  Madamigella,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  never  daied 
believe  that  I  was  in  the  smallest  thing  necessary  to 
your  happiness.  Is  it  true,  then,  that  you  care  for 
my  being  rather  this  than  that  ?  That  you  are  in 
the  least  grieved  by  any  wrong  of  mine  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  you  mean.  How  could 
we  help  being  grieved  by  what  you  have  said  to 
me?" 

"  Thanks  ;  but  why  do  you  care  whether  a  priest 
of  my  church  loves  his  calling  or  not,  —  you,  a  Prot- 
estant ?  It  is  that  you  are  sorry  for  me  as  an  un- 
happy man,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  that  and  more.  I  am  no  Catholic, 
but  we  are  both  Christians  "  — 

Don  Ippolito  gave  the  faintest  movement  of  his 
shoulders. 

—  "  and  I  cannot  endure  to  think  of  your  doing 
the  things  you  must  do  as  a  priest,  and  yet  hating 
to  be  a  priest.  It  is  terrible  ! " 

"  Are  all  the  priests  of  your  faith  devotees  ?  " 

"  They  cannot  be.     But  are  none  of  yours  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  that.  I  have 
known  real  saints  among  them.  That  friend  of 
mine  in  Padua,  of  whom  I  once  told  you,  became 
such,  and  died  an  angel  fit  for  Paradise.  And  I 
wippose  that  my  poor  uncle  is  a  saint,  too,  in  his 
way." 

"  Your  uncle  ?  A  pr.iest  ?  You  have  never 
mentioned  him  to  us." 

tt  No,"  said  Don  Ippolito.    After  a  certain  pause 


140  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

he  began  abruptly,  "  We  are  of  the  people,  my 
family,  and  in  each  generation  we  have  sought  tc 
honor  our  blood  by  devoting  one  of  the  race  to  the 
church.  When  I  was  a  child,  I  used  to  divert  my- 
self by  making  little  figures  out  of  wood  and  paste- 
board, and  I  drew  rude  copies  of  the  pictures  I  saw 
at  church.  We  lived  in  the  house  where  I  live  now, 
and  where  I  was  born,  and  my  mother  let  me  play 
in  the  small  chamber  where  I  now  have  my  forge  ; 
it  was  anciently  the  oratory  of  the  noble  family 
that  occupied  the  whole  palace.  I  contrived  an 
altar  at  one  end  of  it ;  I  stuck  my  pictures  about 
the  -vails,  and  I  ranged  the  puppets  in  the  order  of 
woi  shippers  on  the  floor ;  then  I  played  at  saying 
mass,  and  preached  to  them  all  day  long. 

"  My  mother  was  a  widow.  She  used  to  watch 
me  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  At  last,  one  day,  she 
brought  my  uncle  to  see  me  :  I  remember  it  all  far 
better  than  yesterday.  '  Is  it  not  the  will  of 
God  ? '  she  asked.  My  uncle  called  me  to  him, 
and  asked  me  whether  I  should  like  to  be  a  priest 
in  good  earnest,  when  I  grew  up  ?  '  Shall  I  then 
be  able  to  make  as  many  little  figures  as  I  like, 
and  to  paint  pictures,  and  carve  an  altar  like  that 
in  your  church  ? '  I  demanded.  My  uncle  an- 
swered that  I  should  have  real  men  and  women  to 
preach  to,  as  he  had,  and  would  not  that  be  much 
finer  ?  In  my  heart  I  did  not  think  so,  for  I  did 
not  care  for  that  part  of  it ;  I  only  liked  to  preach 
to  my  puppets  because  I  had  made  them.  But 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  141 

•aid,  '  Oh  yes,'  as  children  do.  I  kept  on  contriv- 
ing the  toys  that  I  played  with,  and  I  grew  used  to 
hearing  it  told  among  my  mates  and  about  the 
neighborhood  that  I  was  to  be  a  priest ;  I  cannot 
remember  any  other  talk  with  my  mother,  and  I  do 
not  know  how  or  when  it  was  decided.  Whenever 
I  thought  of  the  matter,  I  thought,  4  That  will  be 
very  well.  The  priests  have  very  little  to  do,  and 
they  gain  a  great  deal  of  money  with  their  masses  ; 
and  I  shall  be  able  to  make  whatever  I  like.'  I 
only  considered  the  office  then  as  a  means  to  gratify 
the  passion  that  has  always  filled  my  soul  for  inven- 
tions and  works  of  mechanical  skill  and  ingenuity. 
My  inclination  was  purely  secular,  but  I  was  as 
inevitably  becoming  a  priest  as  if  I  had  been  born 
to  be  one." 

"  But  you  were  not  forced  ?  There  was  no  pres- 
sure upon  you  ?  " 

"  No,  there  was  merely  an  absence,  so  far  as  they 
were  concerned,  of  any  other  idea.  I  think  they 
meant  justly,  and  assuredly  they  meant  kindly  by 
me.  I  grew  in  years,  and  the  time  came  when  I 
was  to  begin  my  studies.  It  was  my  uncle's  influ- 
ence that  placed  me  in  the  Seminary  of  the  Salute, 
and  there  I  repaid  his  care  by  the  utmost  dili- 
gence. But  it  was  not  the  theological  studies  that 
I  loved,  it  was  the  mathematics  and  their  practical 
application,  and  among  the  classics  I  loved  best  the 
poets  and  the  historians.  Yes,  I  can  see  that  I  was 
always  a  mundane  spirit,  and  some  of  those  in 


142  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION, 

charge  of  me  at  once  divined  it,  I  think.  They 
used  to  take  us  to  walk,  —  you  have  seen  the  little 
creatures  in  their  priest's  gowns,  which  they  put  on 
when  they  enter  the  school,  with  a  couple  of  young 
priests  at  the  head  of  the  file,  —  and  once,  for  an 
uncommon  pleasure,  they  took  us  to  the  Arsenal, 
and  let  us  see  the  shipyards  and  the  museum.  You 
know  the  wonderful  things  that  are  there :  the  flags 
and  the  guns  captured  from  the  Turks  ;  the  strange 
weapons  of  all  devices  ;  the  famous  suits  of  armor. 
I  came  back  half-crazed  ;  I  wept  that  I  must  leave 
the  place.  But  I  set  to  work  the  best  I  could  to 
carve  out  in  wood  an  invention  which  the  model  of 
one  of  the  antique  galleys  had  suggested  to  me. 
They  found  it,  —  nothing  can  be  concealed  outside 
of  your  own  breast  in  such  a  school,  —  and  they 
carried  me  with  my  contrivance  before  the  superior, 
He  looked  kindly  but  gravely  at  me :  '  My  son,' 
said  he,  '  do  you  wish  to  be  a  priest  ?  '  4  Surely, 
reverend  father,'  I  answered  in  alarm,  '  why  not?' 
1  Because  these  things  are  not  for  priests.  Their 
thoughts  must  be  upon  other  things.  Consider 
well  of  it,  my  son,  while  there  is  yet  time,'  he  said, 
and  he  addressed  me  a  long  and  serious  discourse 
upon  the  life  on  which  I  was  to  enter.  He  was  a 
just  and  conscientious  and  affectionate  man ;  but 
every  word  fell  like  burning  fire  in  my  heart.  At 
the  end,  he  took  my  poor  plaything,  and  thrust  it 
down  among  the  coals  of  his  scaldino.  It  made  the 
icaldino  smoke,  and  he  baie  me  carry  it  out  witt 
and  BO  turned  again  to  his  book. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  148 

"  My  mother  was  by  this  time  dead,  but  I  could 
hardly  have  gone  to  her,  if  she  had  still  been  living. 
These  things  are  not  for  priests  ! '  kept  repeating 
itself  night  and  day  in  my  brain.  I  was  in  despair, 
I  was  in  a  fury  to  see  my  uncle.  I  poured  out  my 
heart  to  him,  and  tried  to  make  him  understand 
the  illusions  and  vain  hopes  in  which  I  had  lived. 
He  received  coldly  my  sorrow  and  the  reproaches 
which  I  did  not  spare  him ;  he  bade  me  consider 
my  inclinations  as  so  many  temptations  to  be  over- 
come for  the  good  of  my  soul  and  the  glory  of  God. 
He  warned  me  against  the  scandal  of  attempting 
to  withdraw  now  from  the  path  marked  out  for  me. 
I  said  that  I  never  would  be  a  priest.  *  And  what 
will  you  do  ? '  he  asked.  Alas  !  what  could  I  do  ? 
I  went  back  to  my  prison,  and  in  due  course  I  be- 
came a  priest. 

"It  was  not  without  sufficient  warning  that  I 
took  one  order  after  another,  but  my  uncle's  words, 
4  What  will  you  do  ?  '  made  me  deaf  to  these  ad- 
monitions. All  that  is  now  past.  I  no  longer  re- 
sent nor  hate  ;  I  seem  to  have  lost  the  power ;  but 
those  were  days  when  my  soul  was  filled  with  bit- 
terness. Something  of  this  must  have  showed  it- 
self to  those  who  had  me  in  their  charge.  I  have 
heard  that  at  one  time  my  superiors  had  grave 
doubts  whether  I  ought  co  be  allowed  to  take  orders. 
My  examination,  in  which  the  difficulties  of  the 
lacerdotal  life  were  brougnt  before  me  with  the 
greatest  clearness,  was  severe ;  I  do  not  know  how 


144  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

I  passed  it;  it  must  have  been  in  grace  to  my 
uncle.  I  spent  the  next  ten  days  in  a  convent,  to 
meditate  upon  the  step  I  was  about  to  take.  Poor 
helpless,  friendless  wretch  !  Madamigella,  even  yet 
I  cannot  see  how  I  was  to  blame,  that  I  came  forth 
and  received  the  first  of  the  holy  orders,  and  in 
their  time  the  second  and  the  third. 

"  I  was  a  priest,  but  no  more  a  priest  at  heart 
than  those  Venetian  conscripts,  whom  you  saw 
carried  away  last  week,  are  Austrian  soldiers.  I 
was  bound  as  they  are  bound,  by  an  inexorable 
and  inevitable  law. 

"  You  have  asked  me  why  I  became  a  priest. 
Perhaps  I  have  not  told  you  why,  but  I  have  told 
you  how  —  I  have  given  you  the  slight  outward 
events,  not  the  processes  of  my  mind  —  and  that 
is  all  that  I  can  do.  If  the  guilt  was  mine,  I  have 
Buffered  for  it.  If  it  was  not  mine,  still  I  have  suf- 
fered for  it.  Some  ban  seems  to  have  rested  upon 
whatever  I  have  attempted.  My  work,  —  oh,  I 
know  it  well  enough  I  —  has  all  been  cursed  with 
futility ;  my  labors  are  miserable  failures  or  con- 
temptible successes.  I  have  had  my  unselfish 
dreams  of  blessing  mankind  by  some  great  dis- 
covery or  invention ;  but  my  life  has  been  barren, 
barren,  barren ;  and  save  for  the  kindness  that  I 
have  known  in  this  house,  and  that  would  not  let 
me  despair,  it  would  now  be  without  hope." 

He  ceased,  and  the  girl,  who  had  listened  with 
her  proud  looks  transfigured  to  an  aspect  of  griev- 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  145 

kng  pity,  fetched  a  long  sigh.  "  Oh,  I  am  sorry  foi 
you !  "  she  said,  "  more  sorry  than  I  know  how  to 
tell.  But  you  must  not  lose  courage,  you  must  not 
give  up  I " 

Don  Ippolito  resumed  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
u  There  are  doubtless  temptations  enough  to  be 
false  under  the  best  of  conditions  in  this  world. 
But  something  —  I  do  not  know  what  or  whom ; 
perhaps  no  more  my  uncle  or  my  mother  than  I, 
for  they  were  only  as  the  past  had  made  them  — 
caused  me  to  begin  by  living  a  lie,  do  you  not 
see?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  reluctantly  assented  the  girl. 

"  Perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  —  that  is  why  no  good 
has  come  of  me,  nor  can  come.  My  uncle's  piety 
and  repute  have  always  been  my  efficient  help.  He 
is  the  principal  priest  of  the  church  to  which  I  am 
attached,  and  he  has  had  infinite  patience  with  me. 
My  ambition  and  my  attempted  inventions  are  a 
scandal  to  him,  for  he  is  a  priest  of  those  like  the 
Holy  Father,  who  believe  that  all  the  wickedness 
of  the  modern  world  has  come  from  the  devices  of 
science ;  my  indifference  to  the  things  of  religion 
b  a  terror  and  a  sorrow  to  him  which  he  combats 
with  prayers  and  penances.  He  starves  himself  and 
^oes  cold  and  faint  that  God  may  have  mercy  and 
turn  my  heart  to  the  things  on  which  his  own  is 
fixed.  He  loves  my  soul,  bu\,  not  me,  and  we  are 
icarcely  friends." 

Florida  continued  to  look  at  him  with  steadfaat* 
10 


146  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

compassionate  eyes.  u  It  seems  very  strange,  al- 
most like  some  dream,"  she  murmured,  "  that  you 
should  be  saying  all  this  to  me,  Don  Ippolito,  and 
I  do  not  know  why  I  should  have  asked  you  any- 
thing." 

The  pity  of  this  virginal  heart  must  have  been 
very  sweet  to  the  man  on  whom  she  looked  it.  His 
eyes  worshipped  her,  as  he  answered  her  devoutly, 
44  It  was  due  to  the  truth  in  you  that  I  should  seem 
to  you  what  I  am." 

44  Indeed,  you  make  me  ashamed !  "  she  cried 
with  a  blush.  "  It  was  selfish  of  me  to  ask  you  to 
speak.  And  now,  after  what  you  have  told  me,  I 
am  so  helpless  and  I  know  so  very  little  that  I 
don't  understand  how  to  comfort  or  encourage  you. 
But  surely  you  can  somehow  help  yourself.  Are 
men,  that  seem  so  strong  and  able,  just  as  power- 
less as  women,  after  all,  when  it  comes  to  real 
trouble  ?  Is  a  man  "  — 

"I  cannot  answer.  I  am  only  a  priest,"  said 
Don  Ippolito  coldly,  letting  his  eyes  drop  to  the 
gown  that  fell  about  him  like  a  woman's  skirt. 

44  Yes,  but  a  priest  should  be  a  man,  and  so  much 
wore ;  a  priest "  — 

Don  Ippolito  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  No,  no  I  "  cried  the  girl.  t4  Your  own  schemes 
nave  all  failed,  you  say ;  then  why  do  you  not 
think  of  becoming  a  priest  in  reality,  and  getting 
ihe  good  there  must  be  in  such  a  calling  ?  It  ii 
ongulai  that  I  should  venture  to  say  such  a  thing 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  147 

to  you,  and  it  must  seem  presumptuous  and  ridicu- 
lous for  me,  a  Protestant  —  but  our  ways  are  so 
different."  ....  She  paused,  coloring  deeply, 
then  controlled  herself,  and  added  with  grave  com- 
posure, "  If  you  were  to  pray  "  — 

"  To  what,  madamigella  ? "  asked  the  priest, 
sadly. 

44  To  what !  "  she  echoed,  opening  her  eyes  full 
upon  him.  "  To  God  !  " 

Don  Ippolito  made  no  answer.  He  let  his  head 
fall  so  low  upon  his  breast  that  she  could  see  the 
sacerdotal  tonsure. 

"  You  mnst  excuse  me,"  she  said,  blushing  again. 
"  I  did  not  mean  to  wound  your  feelings  as  a  Oath 
olic.  I  have  been  very  bold  and  intrusive.  I  ought 
to  have  remembered  that  people  of  your  church 
have  different  ideas  —  that  the  saints  "  — 

Don  Ippolito  looked  up  with  pensive  irony. 

44  Oh,  the  poor  saints  1 " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Florida,  very 
gravely. 

44 1  mean  that  I  believe  in  the  saints  as  little  as 
you  do." 

44  But  you  believe  in  your  Church  ?  " 

44 1  have  no  Church." 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  Don  Ippolito  again 
dropped  his  head  upon  his  breast.  Florida  leaned 
forward  in  her  eagerness,  and  murmured,  "  Yon 
believe  in  God  ?  " 

The  priest  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her  be* 
•eechingly.  44 1  do  not  know,"  he  whispered. 


148  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

She  met  his  gaze  with  one  of  dumb  bewilder* 
ment.  At  last  she  said :  "  Sometimes  you  bap- 
tize little  children  and  receive  them  into  the  church 
in  the  name  of  God  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Poor  creatures  come  to  you  and  confess  their 
gins,  and  you  absolve  them,  or  order  them  to  do 
penances  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  sometimes  when  people  are  dying,  you 
must  stand  by  their  death-beds  and  give  them  the 
last  consolations  of  religion  ?  " 

"  It  is  true." 

"  Oh !  "  moaned  the  girl,  and  fixed  on  Don  Ippo- 
lito  a  long  look  of  wonder  and  reproach,  which  he 
met  with  eyes  of  silent  anguish. 

"  It  is  terrible,  madamigella,"  he  said,  rising.  "  I 
know  it.  I  would  fain  have  lived  single-heartedly, 
for  I  think  I  was  made  so ;  but  now  you  see  how 
black  and  deadly  a  lie  my  life  is.  It  is  worse  than 
you  could  have  imagined,  is  it  not?  It  is  worse 
than  the  life  of  the  cruelest  bigot,  for  he  at  least 
believes  in  himself." 

"  Worse,  far  worse  !  " 

"  But  at  least,  dear  young  lady,"  he  went  on  pit- 
eously,  "  believe  me  that  I  have  the  grace  to  abhor 
myself.  It  is  not  much,  it  is  very,  very  little,  but 
Ct  is  something.  Do  not  wholly  condemn  me  I " 

44  Condemn  ?  Oh,  I  am  sorry  for  you  with  my 
whole  heart.  Only,  why  must  you  tell  me  all  toil . 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  149 

No,  no ;  you  are  not  to  blame.  I  made  you  speak ; 
I  made  you  put  yourself  to  shame." 

"  Not  that,  dearest  madamigella.  I  would  unsay 
nothing  now,  if  I  could,  unless  to  take  away  th: 
pain  I  have  given  you.  It  has  been  more  a  relief 
than  a  shame  to  have  all  this  known  to  you ;  and 
even  if  you  should  despise  me  "  — 

"  I  don't  despise  you ,  that  is  n't  for  me ;  but  oh* 
I  wish  that  I  could  help  you  I  " 

Don  Ippolito  shook  his  head.  "  You  cannot  help 
me  ;  but  I  thank  you  for  your  compassion  ;  I  shall 
never  forget  it."  He  lingered  irresolutely  with  hia 
hat  in  his  hand.  "  Shall  we  go  on  with  the  reading, 
madamigella  ?  " 

"  No,  we  will  not  read  any  more  to-day,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  Then  I  relieve  you  of  the  disturbance,  madam- 
igella," he  said ;  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
bowed  sadly  and  went. 

She  mechanically  followed  him  to  the  door,  with 
uome  little  gestures  and  movements  of  a  desire  to 
keep  him  from  going,  yet  let  him  go,  and  so  turned 
back  and  sat  down  with  her  hands  resting  noise- 
less on  the  keys  of  the  piano 


XI. 

THE  next  morning  Don  Ippolito  did  not  come, 
but  in  the  afternoon  the  postman  brought  a  letter 
for  Mrs.  Vervain,  couched  in  the  priest's  English, 
begging  her  indulgence  until  after  the  day  of  Cor- 
pus Christi,  up  to  which  time,  he  said,  he  should  be 
too  occupied  for  his  visits  of  ordinary. 

This  letter  reminded  Mrs.  Vervain  that  they  had 
not  seen  Mr.  Ferris  for  three  days,  and  she  sent  to 
ask  him  to  dinner.  But  he  returned  an  excuse,  and 
he  was  not  to  be  had  to  breakfast  the  next  morning 
for  the  asking.  He  was  in  open  rebellion.  Mrs. 
Vervain  had  herself  rowed  to  the  consular  landing, 
and  sent  up  her  gondolier  with  another  invitation  to 
dinner. 

The  painter  appeared  on  the  balcony  in  the  linen 
blouse  which  he  wore  at  his  work,  and  looked  down 
with  a  frown  on  the  smiling  face  of  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain for  a  moment  without  speaking.  Then,  "  I  'U 
fome,"  he  said  gloomily. 

**  Come  with  me,  then,"  returned  Mrs.  Vervain, 

"  I  shall  have  to  keep  you  waiting." 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  You  '11  be  ready  in  five 
minutes." 

Florida  met  the  painter  with  such  gentleness  that 
be  felt  his  resentment  to  have  been  a  stupid  caprice 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  151 

for  which  there  was  no  grou-nd  in  the  world.  He 
tried  to  recall  his  fading  sense  of  outrage,  but  ha 
found  nothing  in  his  mind  but  penitence.  The  sort 
of  distraught  humility  with  which  she  behaved  gave 
her  a  novel  fascination. 

The  dinner  was  good,  as  Mrs.  Vervain's  dinners 
always  were,  and  there  was  a  compliment  to  the 
painter  in  the  presence  of  a  favorite  dish.  When 
he  saw  this,  "  Well,  Mrs.  Vervain,  what  is  it  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  You  need  n't  pretend  that  you  're  treat- 
ing me  so  well  for  nothing.  You  want  something." 

"  We  want  nothing  but  that  you  should  not  neg- 
lect your  friends.  We  have  been  utterly  deserted 
for  three  or  four  days.  Don  Ippolito  has  not  been 
here,  either ;  but  he  has  some  excuse  ;  he  has  to  get 
ready  for  Corpus  Christi.  He  's  going  to  be  in  the 
procession." 

"  Is  he  to  appear  with  his  flying  machine,  or  hia 
portable  dining-table,  or  his  automatic  camera  ?  " 

"  For  shame  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vervain,  beaming  re- 
proach. Florida's  face  clouded,  and  Ferris  made 
haste  to  say  that  he  did  not  know  these  inven- 
tions were  sacred,  and  that  he  had  no  wish  to  blas- 
pheme them. 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  meant,"  an- 
rwered  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  And  now,  we  want  you  to 
get  us  a  window  to  look  out  on  the  procession." 

"  Oh,  that 's  what  you  want,  is  it  ?  I  thought 
you  merely  wanted  me  not  to  neglect  my  friends." 

•*  Well,  do  you  call  that  neglecting  them  ?  " 


162  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Mrs.  Vervain,  Mrs.  Vervain !  What  a  mind  yoq 
have  1  Is  there  anything  else  you  want  ?  Me  to  go 
with  you,  for  example  ?  " 

"  We  don't  insist.  You  can  take  us  to  the  win- 
dow and  leave  us,  if  you  like." 

"  This  clemency  is  indeed  unexpected,"  replied 
Ferris.  "  I  'm  really  quite  unworthy  of  it." 

He  was  going  on  with  the  badinage  customary 
between  Mrs.  Vervain  and  himself,  when  Florida 
protested,  — 

"  Mother,  I  think  we  abuse  Mr.  Ferris's  kind- 
ness." 

"  I  know  it,  my  dear  —  I  know  it,"  cheerfully 
assented  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  It 's  perfectly  shocking. 
But  what  are  we  to  do  ?  We  must  abuse  somebody  '9 
kindness." 

"  We  had  better  stay  at  home.  I  'd  much  rather 
not  go,"  said  the  girl,  tremulously. 

"  Why,  Miss  Vervain,"  said  Ferris  gravely,  "  I'm 
very  sorry  if  you  've  misunderstood  my  joking. 
I've  never  yet  seen  the  procession  to  advantage, 
and  I  'd  like  very  much  to  look  on  with  you." 

He  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  grateful  for 
his  words,  or  annoyed.  She  resolutely  said  no  more, 
but  her  mother  took  up  the  strain  and  discoursed 
long  upon  it,  arranging  all  the  particulars  of  their 
meeting  and  going  together.  Ferris  was  a  little 
piqued,  and  began  to  wonder  why  Miss  Vervain 
did  not  stay  at  home  if  she  did  not  want  to  go. 
To  be  sure,  she  went  everywhere  with  her  mother 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  153 

but  it  was  strange,  with  her  habitual  violent  sub- 
missiveness,  that  she  should  have  said  anything  in 
opposition  to  her  mother's  wish  or  purpose. 

After  dinner,  Mrs.  Vervain  frankly  withdrew 
for  her  nap,  and  Florida  seemed  to  make  a  little 
haste  to  take  some  sewing  in  her  hand,  and  sat 
down  with  the  air  of  a  woman  willing  to  detain  her 
visitor.  Ferris  was  not  such  a  stoic  as  not  to  be 
dimly  flattered  by  this,  but  he  was  too  much  of  a 
man  to  be  fully  aware  how  great  an  advance  it 
might  seem. 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  see  most  of  the  priests  of 
Venice,  and  what  they  are  like,  in  the  procession 
to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  remember  speak- 
ing to  me  about  priests,  the  other  day,  Mr.  Fer- 
ris?" 

"  Yes,  I  remember  it  very  well.  I  think  I  over- 
did it ;  and  I  could  n't  perceive  afterwards  that  I 
had  shown  any  motive  but  a  desire  to  make  trouble 
for  Don  Ippolito." 

"  I  never  thought  that,"  answered  Florida,  seri- 
ously. "  What  you  said  was  true,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  and  it  was  n't,  and  I  don't  know 
that  it  differed  from  anything  else  in  the  world,  in 
that  respect.  It  is  true  that  there  is  a  great  distrust 
of  the  priests  amongst  the  Italians.  The  young 
men  hate  them  —  or  think  they  do  —  or  say  they 
io.  Most  educated  men  in  middle  life  are  mate- 
rialists, and  of  course  unfriendly  to  the  priests, 
?here  are  even  women  who  are  skeptical  about  i* 


154  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

ligion.  But  I  suspect  that  the  largest  number  of  aL 
those  who  talk  loudest  against  the  priests  are  really 
subject  to  them.  You  must  consider  how  very  in- 
timately they  are  bound  up  with  every  family  in  the 
most  solemn  relations  of  life." 

"Do  you  think  the  priests  are  generally  bad 
mun  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl  shyly. 

"I  don't,  indeed.  I  don't  see  how  things  could 
hang  together  if  it  were  so.  There  must  be  a  great 
basis  of  sincerity  and  goodness  in  them,  when  all  is 
said  and  done.  It  seems  to  me  that  at  the  worst 
they  're  merely  professional  people  —  poor  fellows 
who  have  gone  into  the  church  for  a  living.  You 
know  it  is  n't  often  now  that  the  sons  of  noble  fam- 
ilies take  orders  ;  the  priests  are  mostly  of  humble 
origin  ;  not  that  they  're  necessarily  the  worse  for 
that ;  the  patricians  used  to  be  just  as  bad  in  an- 
other way." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Florida,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  considering  her  seam,  "why  there  is  always 
something  so  dreadful  to  us  in  the  idea  of  a  priest." 

"  They  do  seem  a  kind  of  alien  creature  to  us 
Protestants.  I  can't  make  out  whether  they  seem 
so  to  Catholics,  or  not.  But  we  have  a  repugnance 
fco  all  doomed  people,  have  n't  we  ?  A  nd  a  priest 
is  a  man  under  sentence  of  death  to  the  natural  ties 
between  himself  and  the  human  race.  He  is  dead 
to  us.  That  makes  him  dreadful.  The  spectre  of 
our  dearest  friend,  father  or  mother,  would  be  ter- 
rible. And  yet,"  added  Ferris,  musingly,  "a 
*  n't  terrible." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  156 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl,  "  that's  because  a  wo- 
man's life  even  in  the  world  seems  to  be  a  constant 
giving  up.  No,  a  nun  is  n't  unnatural,  but  a  priest 
is." 

She  was  silent  for  a  time,  in  which  she  sewed 
swiftly ;  then  she  suddenly  dropped  her  work  into 
her  lap,  and  pressing  it  down  with  both  hands,  she 
asked,  "  Do  you  believe  that  priests  themselves 
are  ever  skeptical  about  religion  ?  " 

"I  suppose  it  must  happen  now  and  then.  In 
the  best  days  of  the  church  it  was  a  fashion  to 
doubt,  you  know.  I  've  often  wanted  to  ask  our 
friend  Don  Ippolito  something  about  these  matters, 
but  I  did  n't  see  how  it  could  be  managed."  Fer- 
ris did  not  note  the  change  that  passed  over  Flor- 
ida's face,  and  he  continued.  "  Our  acquaintance 
hasn't  become  so  intimate  as  I  hoped  it  might. 
But  you  only  get  to  a  certain  point  with  Italians. 
They  like  to  meet  you  on  the  street ;  maybe  they 
have  n't  any  indoors." 

"  Yes,  it  must  sometimes  happen,  as  you  say," 
replied  Florida,  with  a  quick  sigh,  reverting  to  the 
beginning  of  Ferris's  answer.  "  But  is  it  any 
worse  for  a  false  priest  than  for  a  hypocritical  min- 
ister ?  " 

"  It 's  bad  enough  for  either,  but  it 's  worse  for 
the  priest.      You  see,,   Miss   Vervain,   a  minister 
does  n't  set  up  for  so  much.     He  doesn't  pretend 
to  forgive  us  our  sins,  and  he  does  n't  ask  us  to  con 
IBBB  them;  he  doesn't  offer  us  the  veritable  body 


156  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

and  blood  in  the  sacrament,  and  he  does  n't  beat 
allegiance  to  the  visible  and  tangible  vicegerent  of 
Christ  upon  earth.  A  hypocritical  parson  may  be 
absurd  ;  but  a  skeptical  priest  is  tragical." 

44  Yes,  oh  yes,  I  see,"  murmured  the  girl,  with  a 
grieving  face.  "  Are  they  always  to  blame  for  it  ? 
They  must  be  induced,  sometimes,  to  enter  the 
church  before  they've  seriously  thought  about  it, 
and  then  don't  know  how  to  escape  from  the  path 
that  has  been  marked  out  for  them  from  their  child- 
hood. Should  you  think  such  a  priest  as  that  was 
to  blame  for  being  a  skeptic  ?  "  she  asked  very 
earnestly. 

44  No,"  said  Ferris,  with  a  smile  at  her  serious- 
ness, 44 1  should  think  such  a  skeptic  as  that  was  to 
blame  for  being  a  priest." 

44  Should  n't  you  be  very  sorry  for  him  ?  "  pur- 
sued Florida  still  more  solemnly. 

44 1  should,  indeed,  if  I  liked  him.  If  I  did  n't, 
I  'm  afraid  I  should  n't,"  said  Ferris ;  but  he  saw 
that  his  levity  jarred  upon  her.  4t  Come,  Miss  Ver- 
vain, you  're  not  going  to  look  at  those  fat  monks 
and  sleek  priests  in  the  procession  to-morrow  as  so 
many  incorporate  tragedies,  are  you  ?  You  '11  spoil 
my  pleasure  if  you  do.  I  dare  say  they  '11  be  all  of 
them  devout  believers,  accepting  everything,  down 
5o  the  animalcula  in  the  holy  water." 

*  If  you  were  that  kind  of  a  priest,"  persisted 
the  girl,  without  heeding  his  jests,  44  what  should 

rondo?" 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  15T 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know.  I  can't  imagine 
it.  Why,"  he  continued,  "think  what  a  helpless 
creature  a  priest  is  in  everything  but  his  priesthood 
—  more  helpless  than  a  woman,  even.  The  only 
thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  leave  the  church,  and 
how  could  he  do  that  ?  He  's  in  the  world,  but  he 
is  n't  of  it,  fcnd  I  don't  see  what  he  could  do  with  it, 
or  it  with  him.  If  an  Italian  priest  were  to  leave 
the  church,  even  the  liberals,  who  distrust  him  now, 
would  despise  him  still  more.  Do  you  know  that 
they  have  a  pleasant  fashion  of  calling  the  Protes- 
tant converts  apostates  ?  The  first  thing  for  such 
a  priest  would  be  exile.  But  I  'm  not  supposably 
the  kind  of  priest  you  mean,  and  I  don't  think  just 
such  a  priest  supposable.  I  dare  say  if  a  priest 
found  himself  drifting  into  doubt,  he  'd  try  to  avoid 
the  disagreeable  subject,  and,  if  he  could  n't,  he  'd 
philosophize  it  some  way,  and  wouldn't  let  his 
skepticism  worry  him." 

"  Then  you  mean  that  they  have  n't  consciences 
like  us  ?  " 

"  They  have  consciences,  but  not  like  us.  The 
Italians  are  kinder  people  than  we  are,  but  they  're 
not  so  just,  and  I  should  say  that  they  don't  think 
truth  the  chief  good  of  life.  They  believe  there  are 
pleasanter  and  better  things.  Perhaps  they  're 
right." 

"  No,  no ;  you  don't  believe  that,  you  know  you 
don't,"  said  Florida,  anxiously.  "  And  you  have  n't 
answered  my  question." 


158  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have.  I  Ve  told  you  it  was  n't  a  rap* 
posable  case." 

**  But  suppose  it  was." 

"  Well,  if  I  must,"  answered  Ferris  with  a  laugh. 
"  With  my  unfortunate  bringing  up,  I  could  n't  say 
less  than  that  such  a  man  ought  to  get  out  of  his 
priesthood  at  any  hazard.  He  should  cease  to  be  a 
priest,  if  it  cost  him  kindred,  friends,  good  fame, 
country,  everything.  I  don't  see  how  there  can  be 
any  living  in  such  a  He,  though  I  know  there  is.  In 
all  reason,  it  ought  to  eat  the  soul  out  of  a  man, 
and  leave  him  helpless  to  do  or  be  any  sort  of  good. 
But  there  seems  to  be  something,  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,  that  is  above  all  reason  of  ours,  some- 
thing that  saves  each  of  us  for  good  in  spite  of  the 
bad  that 's  in  us.  It  *s  very  good  practice,  for  a 
man  who  wants  to  be  modest,  to  come  and  Hve  in  a 
Latin  country.  He  learns  to  suspect  his  own  top- 
ping virtues,  and  to  be  lenient  to  the  novel  combi- 
nations of  right  and  wrong  that  he  sees.  But  aa 
for  our  insupposable  priest  —  yes,  I  should  say  de- 
cidedly he  ought  to  get  out  of  it  by  all  means." 

Florida  fell  back  in  her  chair  with  an  aspect  of 
Buch  relief  as  comes  to  one  from  confirmation  on  an 
important  point.  She  passed  her  hand  over  the 
sewing  in  her  lap,  but  did  not  speak. 

Ferris  went  on,  with  a  doubting  look  at  her,  for 
he  had  been  shy  of  introducing  Don  IppoHto'i 
oame  since  the  day  on  the  Brenta,  and  he  did  not 
know  what  effect  a  recurrence  to  him  in  this  talk 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  159 

might  have.  "  I  Ve  often  wondered  if  our  own 
glerical  friend  were  not  a  little  shaky  in  his  faith. 
I  don't  think  nature  meant  him  for  a  priest.  He 
always  strikes  me  as  an  extremely  secular-minded 
person.  I  doubt  if  he 's  ever  put  the  question 
whether  he  is  what  he  professes  to  be,  squarely  to 
himself  —  he  's  such  a  mere  dreamer." 

Florida  changed  her  posture  slightly,  and  looked 
down  at  her  sewing.  She  asked,  "  But  should  n't 
you  abhor  him  if  he  were  a  skeptical  priest  ?  " 

Ferris  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
find  it  such  an  easy  matter  to  abhor  people.  It 
would  be  interesting,"  he  continued  musingly,  "to 
have  such  a  dreamer  waked  up,  once,  and  suddenly 
confronted  with  what  he  recognized  as  perfect  truth- 
fulness, and  could  n't  help  contrasting  himself  with. 
But  it  would  be  a  little  cruel." 

"  Would  you  rather  have  him  left  as  he  was  ?  " 
asked  Florida,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  As  a  moralist,  no  ;  as  a  humanitarian,  yes,  Miss 
Vervain.  He  'd  be  much  happier  as  he  was." 

"  What  time  ought  we  to  be  ready  for  you  to- 
morrow ?  "  demanded  the  girl  in  a  tone  of  decision. 

"  We  ought  to  be  in  the  Piazza  by  nine  o'clock," 
Baid  Ferris,  carelessly  accepting  the  change  of  sub- 
ject ;  and  he  told  her  of  his  plan  for  seeing  the  pro- 
cession from  a  window  of  the  Old  Procuratie. 

When  he  rose  to  go,  he  said  lightly,  "  Perhaps, 
After  all,  we  may  see  the  type  of  tragical  pried 


160  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

we  Ve  been  talking  about.     Who  can  tell  ?    I  say 
his  nose  will  be  red.*' 

"  Perhaps,"   answered  Florida,  with  unheeding 
gravity. 


xn. 

THE  day  was  one  of  those  which  can  come  to  the 
World  only  in  early  June  at  Venice.  The  heaven 
was  without  a  cloud,  but  a  blue  haze  made  mystery 
of  the  horizon  where  the  lagoon  and  sky  met  un- 
seen. The  breath  of  the  sea  bathed  in  freshness 
the  city  at  whose  feet  her  tides  sparkled  and  slept. 

The  great  square  of  St.  Mark  was  transformed 
from  a  mart,  from  a  salon,  to  a  temple.  The  shops 
under  the  colonnades  that  inclose  it  upon  three 
sides  were  shut ;  the  caff  es,  before  which  the  circles 
of  idle  coffee-drinkers  and  sherbet-eaters  ordinarily 
spread  out  into  the  Piazza,  were  repressed  to  the 
limits  of  their  own  doors ;  the  stands  of  the  water- 
venders,  the  baskets  of  those  that  sold  oranges  of 
Palermo  and  black  cherries  of  Padua,  had  vanished 
from  the  base  of  the  church  of  St.  Mark,  which 
with  its  dim  splendor  of  mosaics  and  its  carven 
luxury  of  pillar  and  arch  and  finial  rose  like  the 
high-altar,  ineffably  rich  and  beautiful,  of  the  vaster 
temple  whose  inclosure  it  completed.  Before  it 
Btood  the  three  great  red  flag-staffs,  like  painted 
tapers  before  an  altar,  and  from  them  hung  the 
Austrian  fags  of  red  and  white,  and  yellow  and 
kfak. 

In  the  middle  of  the  square  stood  the  Austrian 
11 


162  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

military  band,  motionless,  encircling  their  leader 
with  his  gold-headed  staff  uplifted.  During  the 
night  a  light  colonnade  of  wood,  roofed  with  blue 
cloth,  had  been  put  up  around  the  inside  of  the 
Piazza,  and  under  this  now  paused  the  long  pomp 
of  the  ecclesiastical  procession  —  the  priests  of  all 
fche  Venetian  churches  in  their  richest  vestments, 
followed  in  their  order  byfacchini,  in  white  sandals 
and  gay  robes,  with  caps  of  scarlet,  white,  green, 
and  blue,  who  bore  huge  painted  candles  and  silken 
banners  displaying  the  symbol  or  the  portrait  of  the 
titular  saints  of  the  several  churches,  and  supported 
the  canopies  under  which  the  host  of  each  was  ele- 
vated. Before  the  clergy  went  a  company  of  Aus- 
trian soldiers,  and  behind  the  facchini  came  a  long 
array  of  religious  societies,  charity-school  boys  in 
uniforms,  old  paupers  in  holiday  dress,  little  naked 
urchins  with  shepherds'  crooks  and  bits  of  fleece 
about  their  loins  like  John  the  Baptist  in  the  Wil- 
derness, little  girls  with  angels'  wings  and  crowns, 
the  monks  of  the  various  orders,  and  civilian  peni- 
tents of  all  sorts  in  cloaks  or  dress-coats,  hooded  or 
bareheaded,  and  carrying  each  a  lighted  taper. 
The  corridors  under  the  Imperial  Palace  and  the 
New  and  Old  Procuratie  were  packed  with  specta- 
tors ;  from  every  window  up  and  down  the  fronts 
of  the  palaces,  gay  stuffs  were  flung ;  the  startled 
doves  of  St.  Mark  perched  upon  the  cornices,  or 
fluttered  uneasily  to  and  fro  above  the  crowd. 
The  baton  of  the  band  leader  descended  with  * 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  163 

crash  of  martial  music,  the  priests  chanted,  the 
eharity-boys  sang  shrill,  a  vast  noise  of  shuffling 
feet  arose,  mixed  with  the  foliage-like  rustling  of 
the  sheets  of  tinsel  attached  to  the  banners  and 
candles  in  the  procession:  the  whole  strange,  gor- 
geous picture  came  to  life. 

After  all  her  plans  and  preparations,  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain had  not  felt  well  enough  that  morning  to  come 
to  the  spectacle  which  she  had  counted  so  much 
upon  seeing,  but  she  had  therefore  insisted  the  more 
that  her  daughter  should  go,  and  Ferris  now  stood 
with  Florida  alone  at  a  window  in  the  Old  Procu- 
ratie. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think,  Miss  Vervain  ?  "  he 
asked,  when  their  senses  had  somewhat  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  noise  of  the  procession ;  "  do  you 
say  now  that  Venice  is  too  gloomy  a  city  to  have 
ever  had  any  possibility  of  gayety  in  her  ?  " 

"  I  never  said  that,"  answered  Florida,  opening 
her  eyes  upon  him. 

"Neither  did  I,"  returned  Ferris,  "but  I've 
often  thought  it,  and  I  'm  not  sure  now  but  I  'm 
right.  There's  something  extremely  melancholy 
to  me  in  all  this.  I  don't  care  so  much  for  what 
one  may  call  the  deplorable  superstition  expressed 
in  the  spectacle,  but  the  mere  splendid  sight  and 
the  music  are  enough  to  make  one  shed  tears.  I 
don't  know  anything  more  affecting  except  a  pro- 
session  of  lantern-lit  gondolas  and  barges  on  the 
Gtrand  Canal.  It 's  phantasmal.  It 's  the  spectra) 


164  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

resurrection  of  the  old  dead  forms  into  the  present 
It 's  not  even  the  ghost,  it 's  the  corpse,  of  othel 
ages  that 's  haunting  Venice.  The  city  ought  to 
have  been  destroyed  by  Napoleon  when  he  de 
stroyed  the  Republic,  and  thrown  overboard  —  St 
Mark,  Winged  Lion,  Bucentaur,  and  all.  There  ia 
no  land  like  America  for  true  cheerfulness  and 
light-heartedness.  Think  of  our  Fourth  of  Julys 
and  our  State  Fairs.  Selah  I " 

Ferris  looked  into  the  girl's  serious  face  with 
twinkling  eyes.  He  liked  to  embarrass  her  gravity 
with  his  antic  speeches,  and  enjoyed  her  endeavors 
to  find  an  earnest  meaning  in  them,  and  her  evident 
trouble  when  she  could  find  none. 

"  I  'm  curious  to  know  how  our  friend  will  look," 
he  began  again,  as  he  arranged  the  cushion  on  the 
window-sill  for  Florida's  greater  comfort  in  watch- 
ing the  spectacle,  "  but  it  won't  be  an  easy  matter 
to  pick  him  out  in  this  masquerade,  I  fancy.  Can- 
dle-carrying, as  well  as  the  other  acts  of  devotion, 
Beems  rather  out  of  character  with  Don  Ippolito, 
and  I  can't  imagine  his  putting  much  soul  into  it. 
However,  very  few  of  the  clergy  appear  to  do  that. 
Look  at  those  holy  men  with  their  eyes  to  the 
wind !  They  are  wondering  who  is  the  bella  bionda 
at  the  window  here." 

Florida  listened  to  his  persiflage  with  an  air  of 
§ad  distraction.  She  was  intent  upon  the  proces* 
lion  as  it  approached  from  the  other  side  of  the 
Piazza,  and  she  replied  at  random  to  his  comments 
•n  the  different  bodies  that  formed  it. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  165 

*'  It 's  very  hard  to  decide  which  are  my  favor 
lies,"  he  continued,  surveying  the  long  column 
through  an  opera-glass.  "  My  religious  disadvan- 
tages have  been  such  that  I  don't  care  much  for 
priests  or  monks,  or  young  John  the  Baptists,  01 
small  female  cherubim,  but  I  do  like  little  charity- 
boys  with  voices  of  pins  and  needles  and  hair  cut  d 
la  dead-rabbit.  I  should  like,  if  it  were  consistent 
with  the  consular  dignity,  to  go  down  and  rub  their 
heads.  I  'm  fond,  also,  of  old  charity-boys,  I  find. 
Those  paupers  make  one  in  love  with  destitute  and 
dependent  age,  by  their  aspect  of  irresponsible  en- 
joyment. See  how  briskly  each  of  them  topples 
along  on  the  leg  that  he  has  n't  got  in  the  grave ! 
How  attractive  likewise  are  the  civilian  devotees  in 
those  imperishable  dress-coats  of  theirs!  Observe 
their  high  collars  of  the  era  of  the  Holy  Alliance : 
they  and  their  fathers  and  their  grandfathers  before 
them  have  worn  those  dress-coats ;  in  a  hundred 
years  from  now  their  posterity  will  keep  holiday  in 
them.  I  should  like  to  know  the  elixir  by  which 
the  dress-coats  of  civil  employees  render  themselves 
immortal.  Those  penitents  in  the  cloaks  and  cowls 
are  not  bad,  either,  Miss  Vervain.  Come,  they  add 
a  very  pretty  touch  of  mystery  to  this  spectacle. 
They  're  the  sort  of  thing  that  painters  are  expected 
to  paint  in  Venice — that  people  sigh  over  as  so 
peculiarly  Venetian.  If  you  've  a  single  sentiment 
%bout  you,  Miss  Verrain,  now  is  tho  time  to  pro- 
iuoeit." 


166  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

44  But  I  have  n't.  I'm  afraid  I  have  no  sentiment 
At  all,"  answered  the  girl  ruefully.  "  But  thia 
makes  me  dreadfully  sad." 

"  Why  that 's  just  what  I  was  saying  a  while 
ago.  Excuse  me,  Miss  Vervain,  but  your  sadness 
lacks  novelty  ;  it 's  a  sort  of  plagiarism." 

"  Don't,  please,"  she  pleaded  yet  more  earnestly. 
"  I  was  just  thinking  —  I  don't  know  why  such  an 
awful  thought  should  come  to  me  —  that  it  might 
all  be  a  mistake  after  all ;  perhaps  there  might  not 
be  any  other  world,  and  every  bit  of  this  power  and 
display  of  the  church  —  our  church  as  well  as  the 
rest  —  might  be  only  a  cruel  blunder,  a  dreadful 
mistake.  Perhaps  there  is  n't  even  any  God  I  Do 
you  think  there  is  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  it,"  said  Ferris  gravely,  "  I  know 
it.  But  I  don't  wonder  that  this  sight  makes  you 
doubt.  Great  God !  How  far  it  is  from  Christ  I 
Look  there,  at  those  troops  who  go  before  the  fol 
lowers  of  the  Lamb :  their  trade  is  murder.  In  a 
minute,  if  a  dozen  men  called  out,  '  Long  live  the 
King  of  Italy  ! '  it  would  be  the  duty  of  those  sol- 
diers to  fire  into  the  helpless  crowd.  Look  at  the 
silken  and  gilded  pomp  of  the  servants  of  the  car- 
penter's son  !  Look  at  those  miserable  monks,  vol- 
untary prisoners,  beggars,  aliens  to  their  kind  I 
Look  at  those  penitents  who  think  that  they  can 
get  forgiveness  for  their  sins  by  carrying  a  candle 
round  the  square  I  An  i  it  is  nearly  two  thousand 
fears  since  the  world  turned  Christian  I  It  tl 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  167 

pretty  slow.  But  I  suppose  God  lets  men  learn 
Him  from  their  own  experience  of  evil.  I  imagine 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  a  sort  of  republic,  and 
that  God  draws  men  to  Him  only  through  theii 
perfect  freedom." 

"Yes,  yes,  it  must  be  so,"  answered  Florida, 
gtaring  down  on  the  crowd  with  unseeing  eyes, 
"  but  I  can't  fix  my  mind  on  it.  I  keep  thinking 
the  whole  time  of  what  we  were  talking  about  yes- 
terday. I  never  could  have  dreamed  of  a  priest's 
disbelieving ;  but  now  I  can't  dream  of  anything 
else.  It  seems  to  me  that  none  of  these  priests  or 
monks  can  believe  anything.  Their  faces  look  false 
and  sly  and  bad —  all  of  them  !  " 

"  No,  no,  Miss  Vervain,"  said  Ferris,  smiling  at 
her  despair,  "  you  push  matters  a  little  beyond  — 
as  a  woman  has  a  right  to  do,  of  course.  I  don't 
think  their  faces  are  bad,  by  any  means.  Some  of 
them  are  dull  and  torpid,  and  some  are  frivolous, 
just  like  the  faces  of  other  people.  But  I  've  been 
noticing  the  number  of  good,  kind,  friendly  faces, 
and  they  're  in  the  majority,  just  as  they  are 
amongst  other  people ;  for  there  are  very  few  souls 
altogether  out  of  drawing,  in  my  opinion.  I've 
even  caught  sight  of  some  faces  in  which  there  was 
a  real  rapture  of  devotion,  and  now  and  then  a  very 
ainocent  one.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a  man  I  should 
like  to  bet  on,  if  he  'd  only  look  up." 

The  priest  whom  Ferris  indicated  was  slowly  ad- 
lancing  toward  the  space  immediately  under  theil 


168  A  FOBEGONE  CONCLUSION. 

window.  He  was  dressed  in  robes  of  high  ceremony, 
and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  lighted  taper.  He 
moved  with  a  gentle  tread,  and  the  droop  of  hia 
slender  figure  intimated  a  sort  of  despairing  weari- 
ness. While  most  of  his  fellows  stared  carelessly 
or  curiously  about  them,  his  face  was  downcast  and 
averted. 

Suddenly  the  procession  paused,  and  a  hush  fell 
upon  the  vast  assembly.  Then  the  silence  was 
broken  by  the  rustle  and  stir  of  all  those  thousands 
going  down  upon  their  knees,  as  the  cardinal-patri- 
arch lifted  his  hands  to  bless  them. 

The  priest  upon  whom  Ferris  and  Florida  had 
fixed  their  eyes  faltered  a  moment,  and  before  he 
knelt  his  next  neighbor  had  to  pluck  him  by  the 
skirt.  Then  he  too  knelt  hastily,  mechanically 
lifting  his  head,  and  glancing  along  the  front  of 
the  Old  Procuratie.  His  face  had  that  weariness 
in  it  which  his  figure  and  movement  had  suggested, 
and  it  was  very  pale,  but  it  was  yet  more  singular 
for  the  troubled  innocence  which  its  traits  ex- 
pressed. 

«  There,"  whispered  Ferris,  "  that 's  what  I  call 
an  uncommonly  good  face." 

Florida  raised  her  hand  to  silence  him,  and  the 
heavy  gaze  of  the  priest  rested  on  them  coldly  at 
first.  Then  a  light  of  recognition  shot  into  his  eyes 
and  a  flush  suffused  his  pallid  visage,  which  seemed 
to  grow  the  more  haggard  and  desperate.  His 
Head  fell  again,  and  he  dropped  the  candle  fron: 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  169 

his  hand.  One  of  those  beggars  who  went  by  the 
side  of  the  procession,  to  gather  the  drippings  of  th* 
tapers,  restored  it  to  hi  ni. 

"Why,"  said  Ferris  aloud,  "it's  Don  Ippdifco 
Did  you  know  him  at  first?' 


XIII. 

THE  ladies  were  sitting  on  the  terrace  when  Don 
Ippolito  came  next  morning  to  say  that  he  could 
not  read  with  Miss  Vervain  that  day  nor  for  severa. 
days  after,  alleging  in  excuse  some  priestly  duties 
proper  to  the  time.  Mrs.  Vervain  began  to  lament 
that  she  had  not  been  able  to  go  to  the  procession 
of  the  day  before.  "  I  meant  to  have  kept  a  sharp 
lookout  for  you ;  Florida  saw  you,  and  so  did  Mr. 
Ferris.  But  it  is  n't  at  all  the  same  thing,  you 
know.  Florida  has  no  faculty  for  describing  ;  and 
now  I  shall  probably  go  away  from  Venice  without 
seeing  you  in  your  real  character  once." 

Don  Ippolito  suffered  this  and  more  in  meek 
silence.  He  waited  his  opportunity  with  unfailing 
politeness,  and  then  with  gentle  punctilio  took  his 
^eave. 

"  Weil,  come  again  as  soon  as  your  duties  will 
let  you,  Don  Ippolito,"  cried  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  We 
shall  miss  you  dreadfully,  and  I  begrudge  every  one 
of  your  readings  that  Florida  loses." 

The  priest  passed,  with  the  sliding  step  which  his 
Impeding  drapery  imposed,  down  the  garden  walk 
*nd  was  half-way  to  the  gate,  when  Florida,  who 
•ad  stood  watching  him,  said  to  her  mother,  "  I 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  171 

must  speak  to  him  again,"  and  lightly  descended 
the  steps  and  swiftly  glided  in  pursuit. 

"  Don  Ippolito  !  "  she  called. 

He  already  had  his  hand  upon  the  gate,  but  he 
turned,  and  rapidly  went  back  to  meet  her. 

She  stood  in  the  walk  where  she  had  stopped 
when  her  voice  arrested  him,  breathing  quickly. 
Their  eyes  met ;  a  painful  shadow  overcast  the  f aco 
of  the  young  girl,  who  seemed  to  be  trying  in  vain 
to  speak. 

Mrs.  Vervain  put  on  her  glasses  and  peered 
down  at  the  two  with  good-natured  curiosity. 

"  Well,  madamigella,"  said  the  priest  at  last, 
"  what  do  you  command  me  ?  "  He  gave  a  faint, 
patient  sigh. 

The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  "  Oh,"  she  be- 
gan vehemently,  "  I  wish  there  was  some  one  who 
had  the  right  to  speak  to  you  ! " 

"  No  one,"  answered  Don  Ippolito,  "  has  so  much 
the  right  as  you." 

"  I  saw  you  yesterday,"  she  began  again,  "  and  I 
thought  of  what  you  had  told  me,  Don  Ippolito." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  of  it,  too,"  answered  the  priest ; 
"  I  have  thought  of  it  ever  since." 

"  But  have  n't  you  thought  of  any  hope  for  your- 
self ?  Must  you  still  go  on  as  before  ?  How  can 
you  go  back  now  to  those  things,  and  pretend  to 
think  them  holy,  and  all  the  time  have  no  heart  or 
foith  in  them  ?  It 's  terrible !  " 

u  What  would  you,  madamigella  ?  '    demanded 


172  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Don  Ippolito,  with  a  moody  shrug.  "  It  is  my  pro 
fession,  my  trade,  you  know.  You  might  say  to 
the  prisoner,"  he  added  bitterly,  "  « It  is  terrible  to 
Bee  you  chained  here.'  Yes,  it  is  terrible.  Oh,  I 
don't  reject  your  compassion !  But  what  can  I 
do?" 

"Sit  down  with  me  here,"  said  Florida  in  her 
blunt,  child-like  way,  and  sank  upon  the  stone  seat 
beside  the  walk.  She  clasped  her  hands  together 
in  her  lap  with  some  strong,  bashful  emotion,  while 
Don  Ippolito,  obeying  her  command,  waited  for  her 
to  speak.  Her  voice  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
hoarse  whisper  when  she  began. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  begin  what  I  want  to  say. 
I  am  not  fit  to  advise  any  one.  I  am  BO  young,  and 
BO  very  ignorant  of  the  world." 

"  I  too  know  little  of  the  world,"  said  the  priest, 
as  much  to  himself  as  to  her. 

"  It  may  be  all  wrong,  all  wrong.  Besides,"  she 
said  abruptly,  "  how  do  I  know  that  you  are  a  good 
man,  Don  Ippolito  ?  How  do  I  know  that  you  Ve 
been  telling  me  the  truth  ?  It  may  be  all  a  kind 
of  trap  "  — 

He  looked  blankly  at  her. 

"  This  is  in  Venice  ;  and  you  may  be  leading  me 
on  to  say  things  to  you  that  will  make  trouble  for 
my  mother  and  me.  You  may  be  a  spy  "  — 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no  !  "  cried  the  priest,  springing  to 
bis  feet  with  a  kind  of  moan,  and  a  shudder,  "  God 
forbid  I "  He  swiftly  touched  her  hand  with  the 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

tips  of  his  fingers,  and  then  kissed  them  :  an  action 
of  inexpressible  humility.  "  Madamigella,  I  sweat 
to  you  by  everything  you  believe  good  that  I  would 
rather  die  than  be  false  to  you  in  a  single  breath 
or  thought." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  murmured.  "  I 
don't  see  how  I  could  say  such  a  cruel  thing." 

"  Not  cruel ;  no,  madamigella,  not  cruel,"  softly 
pleaded  Don  Ippolito. 

44  But  —  but  is  there  no  escape  for  you  ?  " 

They  looked  steadfastly  at  each  other  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  Don  Ippolito  spoke. 

44  Yes,"  he  said  very  gravely,  "  there  is  one  way 
of  escape.  I  have  often  thought  of  it,  and  once  I 
thought  I  had  taken  the  first  step  towards  it ;  but 
it  is  beset  with  many  great  obstacles,  and  to  be  a 
priest  makes  one  timid  and  insecure." 

He  lapsed  into  his  musing  melancholy  with  the 
last  words ;  but  she  would  not  suffer  him  to  lose 
whatever  heart  he  had  begun  to  speak  with. 
44  That 's  nothing,"  she  said,  44  you  must  think 
again  of  that  way  of  escape,  and  never  turn  from  it 
till  you  have  tried  it.  Only  take  the  first  step  and 
you  can  go  on.  Friends  will  rise  up  everywhere, 
and  make  it  easy  for  you.  Come,"  she  implored 
him  fervently,  44  you  must  promise." 

He  bent  his  dreamy  eyes  upon  her. 

44  If  I  should  take  this  oily  way  of  escape,  and 
it  seemed  desperate  to  all  others,  would  you  still  be 
ay  friend?" 


174  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"I  should  be  your  friend  if  the  who.e  world 
turned  against  you.'* 

"  Would  you  be  my  friend,"  ht  asked  eagerly  in 
lower  tones,  and  with  signs  of  an  inward  struggle, 
"  if  this  way  of  escape  were  for  me  to  be  no  longer 
a  priest  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  yes  !  Why  not  ?  "  cried  the  girl ;  and 
her  face  glowed  with  heroic  sympathy  and  defiance. 
It  is  from  this  heaven-born  ignorance  in  women 
of  the  insuperable  difficulties  of  doing  right  that 
men  take  fire  and  accomplish  the  sublime  impossi- 
bilities. Our  sense  of  details,  our  fatal  habits  of 
reasoning  paralyze  us  ;  we  need  the  impulse  of  the 
pure  ideal  which  we  can  get  only  from  them. 
These  two  were  alike  children  as  regarded  the 
world,  but  he  had  a  man's  dark  prevision  of  the 
means,  and  she  a  heavenly  scorn  of  everything  but 
the  end  to  be  achieved. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Then  it  does  not 
eeem  terrible  to  you  ?  " 

"  Terrible  ?  No  !  I  don't  see  how  you  can  rest 
till  it  is  done ! " 

"  Is  it  true,  then,  that  you  urge  me  to  this  step, 
which  indeed  I  have  so  long  desired  to  take  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  true !  Listen,  Don  Ippolito :  it  is 
ihe  very  thing  that  I  hoped  you  would  do,  but  I 
wanted  you  to  speak  of  it  first.  You  must  have 
ftll  the  honor  of  it,  and  I  am  glad  you  thought  of  it 
Wore.  You  will  never  regret  it !  " 

She  smiled  radiantly  upon  him,  and    le  kindled 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  175 

nt  her  enthusiasm.  In  another  moment  his  face 
darkened  again.  "  But  it  will  cost  much,"  he 
murmured. 

"  No  matter,"  cried  Florida.  "  Such  a  man  as 
you  ought  to  leave  the  priesthood  at  any  risk  or 
hazard.  You  should  cease  to  be  a  priest,  if  it  cost 
you  kindred,  friends,  good  fame,  country,  every- 
thing ! "  She  blushed  with  irrelevant  conscious- 
ness. "  Why  need  you  be  downhearted  ?  With 
your  genius  once  free,  you  can  make  country  and 
fame  and  friends  everywhere.  Leave  Venice  I 
There  are  other  places.  Think  how  inventors  suc- 
ceed in  America  "  — 

"  In  America  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest.  "  Ah, 
how  long  I  have  desired  to  be  there  ! " 

"You  must  go.  You  will  soon  be  famous  and 
honored  there,  and  you  shall  not  be  a  stranger, 
even  at  the  first.  Do  you  know  that  we  are  going 
home  very  soon  ?  Yes,  my  mother  and  I  have 
been  talking  of  it  to-day.  We  are  both  homesick, 
and  you  see  that  she  is  not  well.  You  shall  come 
fco  us  there,  and  make  our  house  your  home  till  you 
have  formed  some  plans  of  your  own.  Everything 
will  be  easy.  God  is  good,"  she  said  in  a  breaking 
voice,  "  and  you  may  be  sure  he  will  befriend  you." 

"  Some  one,"  answered  Don  Ippolito,  with  tears 
m  his  eyes,  "  has  already  been  very  good  to  me.  I 
thought  it  was  you,  but  I  wiZl  call  it  God !  " 

"  Hush !  You  must  n'^  say  such  things.  But 
jro*i  must  go,  now.  Take  time  to  think,  but  not 
loo  much  time.  Only,  —  be  true  to  yourself." 


176  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

They  rose,  and  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  an* 
with  an  instinctive  gesture  of  appeal.  He  stood  be- 
wildered. Then,  "  Thanks,  madamigella,  thanks  I  " 
he  said,  and  caught  her  fragrant  hand  to  his  lips. 
He  loosed  it  and  lifted  both  his  arms  by  a  blind 
mpulse  in  which  he  arrested  himself  with  a  burn- 
ing blush,  and  turned  away.  He  did  not  take  leave 
of  her  with  his  wonted  formalities,  but  hurried  ab- 
ruptly toward  the  gate. 

A  panic  seemed  to  seize  her  as  she  saw  him  open 
it.  She  ran  after  him.  "  Don  Ippolito,  Don  Ippo- 
lito," she  said,  coming  up  to  him ;  and  stammered 
and  faltered.  "I  don't  know;  I  am  frightened. 
You  must  do  nothing  from  me ;  I  cannot  let  you  • 
I'm  not  fit  to  advise  you.  It  must  be  wholly 
from  your  own  conscience.  Oh  no,  don't  look  so ! 
I  will  be  your  friend,  whatever  happens.  But  if 
what  you  think  of  doing  has  seemed  so  terrible  to 
you,  perhaps  it  is  more  terrible  than  I  can  under- 
stand. If  it  is  the  only  way,  it  is  right.  But  is 
there  no  other  ?  What  I  mean  is,  have  you  no  one 
to  talk  all  this  over  with  ?  I  mean,  can't  you  speak 
of  it  to  —  to  Mr.  Ferris  ?  He  is  so  true  and  honest 
and  just." 

"  I  was  going  to  him,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  with  a 
lim  trouble  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  of  that  I  Remember,  I  don't 
take  anything  back.  No  matter  what  happens,  1 
will  be  your  friend.  But  he  will  tell  you  just  what 
iodo." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  171 

Don  Ippolito  bowed  and  opened  the  gate. 

Florida  went  back  to  her  mother,  who  asked  her, 
*  What  in  the  world  have  you  and  Don  Ippolito  been 
talking  about  so  earnestly?  What  makes  you  so 
pale  and  out  of  breath  ?  *' 

u  I  have  been  wanting  to  tell  you,  mother,"  said 
Florida.     She  drew  her  chair  in  front  of  the  eldei 
lady,  and  sat  down. 
If 


XIV. 

DON  IPPOUTO  did  not  go  directly  to  the  painter's, 
He  walked  toward  his  house  at  first,  and  then  turned 
aside,  and  wandered  out  through  the  noisy  and  pop 
alous  district  of  Canaregio  to  the  Campo  di  Marte. 
A  squad  of  cavalry  which  had  been  going  through 
some  exercises  there  was  moving  off  the  parade 
ground ;  a  few  infantry  soldiers  were  strolling  about 
under  the  trees.  Don  Ippolito  walked  across  the 
field  to  the  border  of  the  lagoon,  where  he  began  to 
pace  to  and  fro,  with  his  head  sunk  in  deep  thought. 
He  moved  rapidly,  but  sometimes  he  stopped  and 
stood  still  in  the  sun,  whose  heat  he  did  not  seem 
to  feel,  though  a  perspiration  bathed  his  pale  face 
and  stood  in  drops  on  his  forehead  under  the 
lhadow  of  his  nicchio.  Some  little  dirty  children  of 
the  poor,  with  which  this  region  swarms,  looked  at 
him  from  the  sloping  shore  of  the  Campo  di  Gius- 
tizia,  where  the  executions  used  to  take  place,  and 
a  small  boy  began  to  mock  his  movements  and 
pauses,  but  was  arrested  by  one  of  the  girls,  who 
Bhook  him  and  gesticulated  warningly. 

At  this  point  the  long  railroad  bridge  which  con- 
nects Venice  with  the  mainland  is  in  full  sight,  and 
now  from  the  reverie  in  which  he  continued,  whether 
le  walked  or  stood  still,  Don  Ippolito  was  roused  by 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  179 

the  whistle  of  an  outward  train.  He  followed  it  with 
his  eye  as  it  streamed  along  over  the  far-stretching 
arches,  and  struck  out  into  the  flat,  salt  marshes  be- 
yond ,  When  the  distance  hid  it,  he  put  on  his  hat, 
which  he  had  unknowingly  removed,  and  turned 
hw  rapid  steps  toward  the  railroad  station.  Ar- 
rived there,  he  lingered  in  the  vestibule  for  half  an 
hour,  watching  the  people  as  they  bought  their 
tickets  for  departure,  and  had  their  baggage  ex- 
amined by  the  customs  officers,  and  weighed  and 
registered  by  the  railroad  porters,  who  passed  it 
through  the  wicket  shutting  out  the  train,  while  the 
passengers  gathered  up  their  smaller  parcels  and 
took  their  way  to  the  waiting-rooms.  He  followed 
a  group  of  English  people  some  paces  in  this  direc- 
tion, and  then  returned  to  the  wicket,  through 
which  he  looked  long  and  wistfully  at  the  train. 
The  baggage  was  all  passed  through  ;  the  doors  of 
the  waiting-rooms  were  thrown  open  with  harsh 
proclamation  by  the  guards,  and  the  passengers 
flocked  into  the  carriages.  Whistles  and  bells 
were  sounded,  and  the  train  crept  out  of  the  sta- 
tion. 

A  man  in  the  company's  uniform  approached  the 
unconscious  priest,  and  striking  his  hands  softly  to- 
gether, said  with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  Your  servant, 
Don  Ippolito.  Are  you  expecting  some  one  ?  " 

"  Ah,  good  day  !  "  answered  the  priest,  with  a 
Sttle  start.  "  No,"  he  added,  "  I  was  not  looking 
tor  any  one." 


180  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  other.  "  Amusing  yourself  ai 
usual  with  the  machinery.  Excuse  the  freedom, 
Don  Ippolito ;  but  you  ought  to  have  been  of  oui 
profession,  —  ha,  ha !  When  you  have  the  leisure, 
I  should  like  to  show  you  the  drawing  of  an  Amer- 
ican locomotive  which  a  friend  of  mine  has  sent  me 
from  Nuova  York.  It  is  very  different  from  ours, 
very  curious.  But  monstrous  in  size,  you  know, 
prodigious  !  May  I  come  with  it  to  your  house, 
some  evening  ?  " 

"  You  will  do  me  a  great  pleasure,"  said  Don  Ip- 
polito. He  gazed  dreamily  in  the  direction  of  the 
vanished  train.  "  Was  that  the  train  for  Milan  ?  " 
he  asked  presently. 

"Exactly,"  said  the  man. 

"  Does  it  go  all  the  way  to  Milan  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  it  stops  at  Peschiera,  where  the  pas- 
sengers have  their  passports  examined;  and  then 
another  train  backs  down  from  Desenzano  and 
takes  them  on  to  Milan.  And  after  that,"  contin- 
ued the  man  with  animation,  "  if  you  are  on  the 
way  to  England,  for  example,  another  train  carries 
you  to  Susa,  and  there  you  get  the  diligence  over 
the  mountain  to  St.  Michel,  where  you  take  rail- 
road again,  and  so  on  up  through  Paris  to  Boulogne- 
Bur-Mer,  and  then  by  steamer  to  Folkestone,  and 
then  by  railroad  to  London  and  to  Liverpool.  It  ia 
jit  Liverpool  that  you  go  on  board  the  steamer  foi 
America,  and  piff  !  in  ten  days  you  are  in  Nuov» 
fork*  My  friend  has  written  me  all  about  it." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  All  yes,  your  friend.  Does  he  like  it  there  in 
America?  " 

"Passably,  passably.  The  Americans  have  no 
manners  ;  but  they  are  good  devils.  They  are 
governed  by  the  Irish.  And  the  wine  is  dear.  But 
he  likes  America ;  yes,  he  likes  it.  Nuova  York  ia 
a  fine  city.  But  immense,  you  know  !  Eight  times 
as  large  as  Venice  !  " 

"  Is  your  friend  prosperous  there  ?  " 

44  Ah  heigh !  That  is  the  prettiest  part  of  the 
Btory.  He  has  made  himself  rich.  He  is  employed 
by  a  large  house  to  make  designs  for  mantlepieces, 
and  marble  tables,  and  tombs  ;  and  he  has  —  listen ! 
—  six  hundred  francs  a  month !  " 

"  Oh  per  Bacco  !  "  cried  Don  Ippolito. 

44  Honestly.  But  you  spend  a  great  deal  there. 
Still,  it  is  magnificent,  is  it  not?  If  it  were  not 
for  that  blessed  war  there,  now,  that  would  be  the 
place  for  you,  Don  Ippolito.  He  tells  me  the 
Americans  are  actually  mad  for  inventions.  Your 
servant.  Excuse  the  freedom,  you  know,"  said  the 
man,  bowing  and  moving  away. 

"Nothing,  dear,  nothing,"  answered  the  priest. 
He  walked  out  of  the  station  with  a  light  step,  and 
went  to  his  own  house,  whers  he  sought  the  room 
in  which  his  inventions  were  stored.  He  had  not 
touched  them  for  weeks.  They  were  all  dusty  and 
many  were  cobwebbed.  He  blew  the  dust  from 
tome,  and  bringing  them  to  the  light,  examined 
them  critically,  finding  them  mostly  disabled  in 


182  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

way  or  other,  except  the  models  of  the  portable  fur- 
niture which  he  polished  with  his  handkerchief  and 
set  apart,  surveying  them  from  a  distance  with  a 
look  of  hope.  He  took  up  the  breech-loading  can- 
non and  then  suddenly  put  it  down  again  with  a 
little  shiver,  and  went  to  the  threshold  of  the  per- 
verted oratory  and  glanced  in  at  his  forge.  Vener- 
anda  had  carelessly  left  the  window  open,  and  the 
draught  had  carried  the  ashes  about  the  floor.  On 
the  cinder-heap  lay  the  tools  which  he  had  used  in 
mending  the  broken  pipe  of  the  fountain  at  Casa 
Vervain,  and  had  not  used  since.  The  place  seemed 
chilly  even  on  that  summer's  day.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  with  clenched  hands.  Then  he  called 
Veneranda,  chid  her  for  leaving  the  window  open, 
and  bade  her  close  it,  and  so  quitted  the  house  and 
left  her  muttering. 

Ferris  seemed  surprised  to  see  him  when  he  ap- 
peared at  the  consulate  near  the  middle  of  the  af- 
ternoon, and  seated  himself  in  the  place  where  he 
was  wont  to  pose  for  the  painter. 

"  Were  you  going  to  give  me  a  sitting?  "  asked 
the  latter,  hesitating.  "  The  light  is  horrible,  just 
now,  with  this  glare  from  the  canal.  Not  that  I 
manage  much  better  when  it 's  good.  I  don't  get 
on  with  you,  Don  Ippolito.  There  are  too  many 
df  you.  I  should  n't  have  known  you  in  the  pro- 
eession  yesterday." 

Don  Ippolito  did  not  respond.  He  rose  and  went 
toward  hk  portrait  on  the  easel,  and  examined  it 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  183 

long,  with  a  curious  minuteness.  Then  he  returned 
to  his  chair,  and  continued  to  look  at  it.  "I  sup- 
pose that  it  resembles  me  a  great  deal,"  he  said, 
14  and  yet  I  do  not  feel  like  that.  I  hardly  know 
what  is  the  fault.  It  is  as  I  should  be  if  I  were 
like  other  priests,  perhaps  ?  " 

44 1  know  it 's  not  good,"  said  the  painter.  44  It 
is  conventional,  in  spite  of  everything.  But  here  'a 
that  first  sketch  I  made  of  you." 

He  took  up  a  canvas  facing  the  wall,  and  set  it 
on  the  easel.  The  character  in  this  charcoal  sketch, 
was  vastly  sincerer  and  sweeter. 

44  Ah !  "  said  Don  Ippolito,  with  a  sigh  and  smile 
of  relief,  44  that  is  immeasurably  better.  I  wish  I 
could  speak  to  you,  dear  friend,  in  a  mood  of  yours 
as  sympathetic  as  this  picture  records,  of  some  mat- 
ters that  concern  me  very  nearly.  I  have  just  come 
from  the  railroad  station." 

44  Seeing  some  friends  off  ?  "  asked  the  painter, 
indifferently,  hovering  near  the  sketch  with  a  bit  of 
charcoal  in  his  hand,  and  hesitating  whether  to  give 
it  a  certain  touch.  He  glanced  with  half -shut  eyes 
at  the  priest. 

Don  Ippolito  sighed  again.  "  I  hardly  know.  I 
was  seeing  off  my  hopes,  my  desires,  my  prayers, 
that  followed  the  train  to  America !  " 

The  painter  put  down  his  charcoal,  dusted  hia 
fingers,  and  looked  at  the  priest  without  saying 
anything. 

44  Do  you  remember  when  I  first  came  to  you  7 
tsked  Don  Ippolito. 


184  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 

**  Certainly,"  said  Ferris.  "  Is  it  of  that  mattel 
you  want  to  speak  to  me  ?  I  'm  very  sorry  to  hear 
it,  for  I  don't  think  it  practical." 

"  Practical,  practical ! "  cried  the  priest  hotly. 
"  Nothing  is  practical  till  it  has  been  tried.  And 
why  should  I  not  go  to  America  ?  " 

"  Because  you  can't  get  your  passport,  for  one 
thing,"  answered  the  painter  dryly. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  rejoined  Don  Ippolito 
more  patiently.  "  I  can  get  a  passport  for  France 
from  the  Austrian  authorities  here,  and  at  Milan 
there  must  be  ways  in  which  I  could  change  it  for 
one  from  my  own  king  "  —  it  was  by  this  title  that 
patriotic  Venetians  of  those  days  spoke  of  Victor 
Emmanuel  —  "  that  would  carry  me  out  of  France 
into  England." 

Ferris  pondered  a  moment.  "  That  is  quite 
true,"  he  said.  "  Why  had  n't  you  thought  of  that 
when  you  first  came  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell.  I  did  n't  know  that  I  could  even 
get  a  passport  for  France  till  the  other  day." 

Both  were  silent  while  the  painter  filled  his  pipe. 
"  Well,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  'm 
afraid  you  're  dooming  yourself  to  many  bitter  dis- 
appointments in  going  to  America.  What  do  you 
expect  to  do  there  ?  " 

"  Why,  with  my  inventions  "  — 

a  I  suppose,"  interrupted  the  other,  putting  a 
lighted  match  to  his  pipe,  "  that  a  painter  must  be 
ft  very  poor  sort  of  American :  his  first  thought  if 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  185 

oi  coming  to  Italy.  So  I  know  very  little  directly 
about  the  fortunes  of  my  inventive  fellow-country- 
men, or  whether  an  inventor  has  any  prospect  of 
making  a  living.  But  once  when  I  was  at  Wash- 
ington I  went  into  the  Patent  Office,  where  the 
models  of  the  inventions  are  deposited ;  the  build- 
ing is  about  as  large  as  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  it  is 
full  of  them.  The  people  there  told  me  nothing 
was  commoner  than  for  the  same  invention  to  be  re- 
peated over  and  over  again  by  different  inventors. 
Some  few  succeed,  and  then  they  have  lawsuits 
with  the  infringers  of  their  patents ;  some  sell  out 
their  inventions  for  a  trifle  to  companies  that  have 
capital,  and  that  grow  rich  upon  them ;  the  great 
number  can  never  bring  their  ideas  to  the  public 
notice  at  all.  You  can  judge  for  yourself  what 
your  chances  would  be.  You  have  asked  me  why 
you  should  not  go  to  America.  Well,  because  I 
think  you  would  starve  there." 

"  I  am  used  to  that,"  said  Don  Ippolito ;  "  and 
besides,  until  some  of  my  inventions  became  known, 
I  could  give  lessons  in  Italian." 

"  Oh,  bravo  1  "  said  Ferris,  "  you  prefer  instant 
death,  then  ?  " 

"But  madamigelta  seemed  to  believe  that  my 
luccess  as  an  inventor  would  be  assured,  there." 

Ferris  gave  a  very  ironical  laugh.  "  Miss  Ver- 
vain must  have  been  about  twelve  years  old  when 
ihe  left  America.  Even  a  lady's  knowledge  of  busi- 
ness, at  that  age,  is  limited.  When  did  you  talk 


186  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

with  her  about  it?  You  had  not  spoken  of  it  td 
me,  of  late,  and  I  thought  you  were  more  contented 
than  you  used  to  be." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  priest.  "  Sometimes  within 
the  last  two  months  I  have  almost  forgotten  it." 

"  And  what  has  brought  it  so  forcibly  to  your 
mind  again  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  so  greatly  desire  to  tell  you,'* 
roplied  Don  Ippolito,  with  an  appealing  look  at  the 
painter's  face.  He  moistened  his  parched  lips  a 
little,  waiting  for  further  question  from  the  painter, 
to  whom  he  seemed  a  man  fevered  by  some  strong 
emotion  and  at  that  moment  not  quite  wholesome. 
Ferris  did  not  speak,  and  Don  Ippolito  began 
again  :  "  Even  though  I  have  not  said  so  in  words 
to  you,  dear  friend,  has  it  not  appeared  to  you  that 
I  have  no  heart  in  my  vocation  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  sometimes  fancied  that.  I  had  no 
right  to  ask  you  why." 

"  Some  day  I  will  tell  you,  when  I  have  the 
courage  to  go  all  over  it  again.  It  is  partly  my 
own  fault,  but  it  is  more  my  miserable  fortune. 
But  wherever  the  wrong  lies,  it  has  at  last  become 
intolerable  to  me.  I  cannot  endure  it  any  longer 
and  live.  I  must  go  away,  I  must  fly  from  it." 

Ferris  shrank  from  him  a  little,  as  men  instinc- 
tively do  from  one  who  has  set  himself  upon  some 
desperate  attempt.  "  Do  you  mean,  Don  Ippolito^ 
khat  you  are  going  to  renounce  your  priesthood  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito  opened  his  hands  and  let  his  priest 
iood  drop,  as  it  were,  to  the  ground. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  187 

44  You  never  spoke  of  this  before,  when  you  talked 
»f  going  to  America.  Though  to  be  sure  "  — 

44  Yes,  yes  !  "  replied  Don  Ippolito  with  vehe- 
mence, "  but  now  an  angel  has  appeared  and  shown 
me  the  blackness  of  my  life  !  " 

Ferris  began  to  wonder  if  he  or  Don  Ippolito 
were  not  perhaps  mad. 

44  An  angel,  yes,"  the  priest  went  on,  rising  from 
his  chair,  "  an  angel  whose  immaculate  truth  has 
mirrored  my  falsehood  in  all  its  vileness  and  distor- 
tion —  to  whom,  if  it  destroys  me,  I  cannot  devote 
less  than  a  truthfulness  like  hers  !  " 

"  Hers  —  hers  ?  "  cried  the  painter,  with  a  sudden 
pang.  "  Whose  ?  Don't  speak  in  these  riddles. 
Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Whom  can  I  mean  but  only  one  ?  —  madami- 
gella ! " 

"  Miss  Vervain  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Misa 
Vervain  has  advised  you  to  renounce  your  priest- 
hood?" 

"  In  as  many  words  she  has  bidden  me  forsake  it 
at  any  risk,  —  at  the  cost  of  kindred,  friends,  good 
fame,  country,  everything." 

The  painter  passed  his  hand  confusedly  over  his 
face.  These  were  his  own  words,  the  words  he  had 
used  in  speaking  with  Florida  of  the  supposed  skep- 
tical priest.  He  grew  very  pale.  "  May  I  ask/' 
ae  demanded  in  a  hard,  dry  voice,  "  how  she  came 
to  advise  such  a  step  ?  " 

44 1  can    hardly  tell.     Something    had    already 


188  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

moved  her  to  barn  from  me  the  story  of  my  life  — 
to  know  that  I  was  a  man  with  neither  faith  noi 
hope.  Her  pure  heart  was  torn  by  the  thought  of 
my  wrong  and  of  my  error.  I  had  never  seen  my- 
self in  such  deformity  as  she  saw  me  even  when  she 
used  me  with  that  divine  compassion.  I  was  al- 
most glad  to  be  what  I  was  because  of  her  angelic 
pity  for  me  !  " 

The  tears  sprang  to  Don  Ippolito's  eyes,  but 
Ferris  asked  in  the  same  tone  as  before,  "  Was  it 
then  that  she  bade  you  be  no  longer  a  priest  ?  " 

"  No,  not  then,"  patiently  replied  the  other , 
"  she  was  too  greatly  overwhelmed  with  my  calam- 
ity to  think  of  any  cure  for  it.  To-day  it  was  that 
she  uttered  those  words  —  words  which  I  shall  never 
forget,  which  will  support  and  comfort  me,  what- 
ever happens ! " 

The  painter  was  biting  hard  upon  the  stem  of  hia 
pipe.  He  turned  away  and  began  ordering  the 
color-tubes  and  pencils  on  a  table  against  the  wall, 
putting  them  close  together  in  very  neat,  straight 
rows.  Presently  he  said  :  "  Perhaps  Miss  Vervain 
also  advised  you  to  go  to  America  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  priest  reverently.  "  She 
had  thought  of  everything.  She  has  promised  me 
a  refuge  under  her  mother's  roof  there,  until  I  can 
make  my  inventions  known;  and  I  shall  follow 
them  at  once." 

"  Follow  them  ?  " 

"They  are  going,  she  told  me.     Madama  doet 


A  FOREGONE  COLLUSION.  189 

not  grow  better.  They  are  homesick.  They  — 
but  you  must  know  all  this  already  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  the  painter  with 
a  very  bitter  smile.  "  You  are  telling  me  newa- 
Pray  go  on." 

"There  is  no  more.  She  made  me  promise  to 
come  to  you  and  listen  to  your  advice  before  I  took 
any  step.  I  must  not  trust  to  her  alone,  she  said  ; 
but  if  I  took  this  step,  then  through  whatever  hap- 
pened she  would  be  my  friend.  Ah,  dear  friend, 
may  I  speak  to  you  of  the  hope  that  these  words 
gave  me  ?  You  have  seen  —  have  you  not  ?  —  you 
must  have  seen  that  "  — 

The  priest  faltered,  and  Ferris  stared  at  him 
helpless.  When  the  next  words  came  he  could  not 
find  any  strangeness  in  the  fact  which  yet  gave  him 
so  great  a  shock.  He  found  that  to  his  nether  con- 
sciousness it  had  been  long  familiar  —  ever  since 
that  day  when  he  had  first  jestingly  proposed  Don 
Ippolito  as  Miss  Vervain's  teacher.  Grotesque, 
tragic,  impossible  —  it  had  still  been  the  under-cur- 
rent of  all  his  reveries  ;  or  so  now  it  seemed  to  nave 
been. 

Don  Ippolito  anxiously  drew  nearer  to  him  and 
laid  an  imploring  touch  upon  his  arm,  —  "I  love 
her ! " 

"What  I"  gasped  the  painter.  "You?  You! 
A  priest  ?  " 

"  Priest  I  priest ! "  cried  D:m  Ippolito,  violently. 
*From  this  day  I  am  no  longer  a  priest  I  From 


190  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

this  hour  I  am  a  man,  and  I  can  ofter  her  the  hon 
orable  love  of  a  man,  the  truth  of  a  most  sacred 
marriage,  and  fidelity  to  death  !  " 

Ferris  made  no  answer.  He  began  to  look  very 
coldly  and  haughtily  at  Don  Ippolito,  whose  heat 
died  away  under  his  stare,  and  who  at  last  met  it 
with  a  glance  of  tremulous  perplexity.  His  hand 
had  dropped  from  Ferris's  arm,  and  he  now  moved 
gome  steps  from  him.  "  What  is  it,  dear  friend  ?  " 
he  besought  him.  "  Is  there  something  that  offends 
you  ?  I  came  to  you  for  counsel,  and  you  meet  me 
with  a  repulse  little  short  of  enmity.  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. Do  I  intend  anything  wrong  without 
knowing  it  ?  Oh,  I  conjure  you  to  speak  plainly ! " 

"Wait I     Wait  a  minute,"  said  Ferris,  waving 
his  hand  like  a  man  tormented  by  a  passing  pain. 
"  I  am  trying  to  think.     What  you  say  is  ... 
I  cannot  imagine  it !  " 

"  Not  imagine  it  ?  Not  imagine  it  ?  And  why  ? 
Is  she  not  beautiful  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

«  And  good  ?  " 

"  Without  doubt." 

"  And  young,  and  yet  wise  beyond  her  yean  ? 
And  true,  and  yet  angelically  kind  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  as  you  say,  God  knows.  But  .... 
a  priest "  — 

"  Oh  I  Always  that  accursed  word !  And  at 
heart,  what  is  a  priest,  then,  but  a  man?  —  a 
wretched,  masked,  imprisoned,  banished  man !  Eai 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  191 

he  not  blood  and  nerves  like  you  ?  Has  he  not  eyes 
to  see  what  is  fair,  and  ears  to  hear  what  is  sweet  ? 
Can  he  live  near  so  divine  a  flower  and  not  kno\v 
her  grace,  not  inhale  the  fragrance  of  her  soul,  not 
adore  her  beauty  ?  Oh,  great  God !  And  if  at 
last  he  would  tear  off  his  stifling  mask,  escape  from 
his  prison,  return  from  his  exile,  would  you  gainsay 
him  ?  " 

"  No  I "  said  the  painter  with  a  kind  of  groan. 
He  sat  down  in  a  tall,  carven  gothic  chair,  —  the 
furniture  of  one  of  his  pictures,  —  and  rested  his 
head  against  its  high  back  and  looked  at  the  priest 
across  the  room.  "  Excuse  me,"  he  continued  with 
a  strong  effort.  "  I  am  ready  to  befriend  you  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power.  What  was  it  you  wanted 
to  ask  me  ?  I  have  told  you  truly  what  I  thought 
of  your  scheme  of  going  to  America ;  but  I  may 
very  well  be  mistaken.  Was  it  about  that  Miss 
Vervain  desired  you  to  consult  me?"  His  voice 
and  manner  hardened  again  in  spite  of  him.  "  Or 
did  she  wish  me  to  advise  you  about  the  renuncia- 
tion of  your  priesthood  ?  You  must  have  thought 
that  carefully  over  for  yourself." 

"  Yes,  I  do  not  think  you  could  make  me  see  that 
a*  a  greater  difficulty  than  it  has  appeared  to  me." 
He  paused  with  a  confused  and  daunted  air,  as  if 
some  important  point  had  slipped  his  mind.  "  But 
I  must  take  the  step ;  tae  burden  of  the  doubfa 
part  I  play  is  unendurable,  is  it  not  ?  " 

*  You  know  better  than  1." 


/92  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

44  But  if  you  were  such  a  man  as  I,  with  neithel 
love  for  your  vocation  nor  faith  in  it,  should  you 
not  cease  to  be  a  priest  ?  " 

44  If  you  ask  me  in  that  way,  —  yes,"  answered 
the  painter.  "  But  I  advise  you  nothing.  I  could 
not  counsel  another  in  such  a  case." 

44  But  you  think  and  feel  as  I  do,"  said  the  priest, 
"  and  I  am  right,  then." 

44 1  do  not  say  you  are  wrong." 

Ferris  was  silent  while  Don  Ippolito  moved  up 
and  down  the  room,  with  his  sliding  step,  like  some 
tall,  gaunt,  unhappy  girl.  Neither  could  put  an 
end  to  this  interview,  so  full  of  intangible,  inconclu- 
sive misery.  Ferris  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then 
said  steadily,  "  Don  Ippolito,  I  suppose  you  did  not 
speak  idly  to  me  of  your  —  your  feeling  for  Miss 
Vervain,  and  that  I  may  speak  plainly  to  you  in 
return." 

44  Surely,"  answered  the  priest,  pausing  in  his 
walk  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the  painter.  "It 
was  to  you  as  the  friend  of  both  that  I  spoke  of  my 
love,  and  my  hope  —  which  is  oftener  my  despair." 

44  Then  you  have  not  much  reason  to  believe  that 
she  returns  your  —  feeling  ?  " 

44  Ah,  how  could  she  consciously  return  it  ?  I 
have  been  hitherto  a  priest  to  her,  and  the  thought 
of  me  would  have  been  impurity.  But  hereafter,  if 
I  can  prove  myself  a  man,  if  I  can  win  my  place  in 
the  wcrld  ....  No,  even  now,  why  should  she 
care  so  much  for  my  escape  from  these  bonds,  if  sbt 
did  not  care  for  me  more  than  she  knew  ?  " 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  198 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  that  extravagant 
generosity  of  Miss  Vervain's  character  ?  " 

"  It  is  divine  !  " 

"  Has  it  seemed  to  you  that  if  such  a  woman 
knew  herself  to  have  once  wrongly  given  you  pain, 
her  atonement  might  be  as  headlong  and  excessive 
as  her  offense  ?  That  she  could  have  no  reserves 
in  her  reparation  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito  looked  at  Ferris,  but  did  not  inter- 
pose. 

"  Miss  Vervain  is  very  religious  in  her  way,  and 
she  is  truth  itself.  Are  you  sure  that  it  is  not  con- 
cern for  what  seems  to  her  your  terrible  position, 
that  has  made  her  show  so  much  anxiety  on  your 
account  ?  " 

"  Do  I  not  know  that  well  ?  Have  I  not  felt 
the  balm  of  her  most  heavenly  pity  ?  " 

"  And  may  she  not  be  only  trying  to  appeal  to 
something  in  you  as  high  as  the  impulse  of  her  own 
heart?" 

"  As  high  !  "  cried  Don  Ippolito,  almost  angrily. 
k  Can  there  be  any  higher  thing  in  heaven  or  on 
earth  than  love  for  such  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  both  in  heaven  and  on  earth,"  answered 
Ferris. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Don  Ippolito 
with  a  puzzled  stare. 

Ferris  did  not  reply  He  f  sll  into  a  dull  reverie 
u  which  he  seemed  to  forget  Don  Ippolito  &nd  the 

13 


194  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

whole  affair.      At  last   the    priest  spoke    again 
"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  signore  ?  " 

"  I  ?  What  is  there  to  say  ?  "  returned  the  othei 
blankly. 

"  Do  you  know  any  reason  why  I  should  not  love 
her,  save  that  I  am  —  have  been  —  a  priest  ?  " 

"  No,  I  know  none,"  said  the  painter,  wearily. 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Don  Ippolito,  "  there  is  some- 
thing on  your  mind  that  you  will  not  speak.  I 
beseech  you  not  to  let  me  go  wrong.  I  love  her  so 
well  that  I  would  rather  die  than  let  my  love  offend 
her.  I  am  a  man  with  the  passions  and  hopes  of  a 
man,  but  without  a  man's  experience,  or  a  man's 
knowledge  of  what  is  just  and  right  in  these  rela- 
tions. If  you  can  be  my  friend  in  this  so  far  as  to 
advise  or  warn  me ;  if  you  can  be  her  friend  "  — 

Ferris  abruptly  rose  and  went  to  his  balcony, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  Grand  Canal.  The  time- 
Btained  palace  opposite  had  not  changed  in  the  last 
half-hour.  As  on  many  another  summer  day,  he  saw 
the  black  boats  going  by.  A  heavy,  high-pointed 
barge  from  the  Sile,  with  the  captain's  family  at 
dinner  in  the  shade  of  a  matting  on  the  roof,  moved 
sluggishly  down  the  middle  current.  A  party  of 
Americans  in  a  gondola,  with  their  opera-glassea 
and  guide-books  in  their  hands,  pointed  out  to  each 
other  the  eagle  on  the  consular  arms.  They  were 
all  like  sights  in  a  mirror,  or  things  in  a  world 
turned  upside  down. 

Ftrris  came  back  and  looked  dizzily  at  tho  pritwt 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  195 

trying  to  believe  that  this  unhuman,  sacerdotai 
phantasm  had  been  telling  him  that  it  loved  a 
beautiful  young  girl  of  his  own  race,  faith,  and 
language. 

"  Will  you  not  answer  me,  signore  ?  "  meekly  de- 
manded Don  Ippolito. 

"  In  this  matter,"  replied  the  painter,  "  I  cannot 
advise  or  warn  you.  The  whole  affair  is  beyond  my 
conception.  I  mean  no  unkindness,  but  I  cannot 
consult  with  you  about  it.  There  are  reasons  why 
I  should  not.  The  mother  of  Miss  Vervain  is  here 
with  her,  and  I  do  not  feel  that  her  interests  in 
such  a  matter  are  in  my  hands.  If  they  come  to 
me  for  help,  that  is  different.  "What  do  you  wish  ? 
You  tell  me  that  you  are  resolved  to  renounce  the 
priesthood  and  go  to  America  ;  and  I  have  answered 
you  to  the  best  of  my  power.  You  tell  me  that 
you  are  in  love  with  Miss  Vervain.  What  can  I 
have  to  say  about  that  ?  " 

Don  Ippolito  stood  listening  with  a  patient,  and 
then  a  wounded  air.  "  Nothing,"  he  answered 
proudly.  "  I  ask  your  pardon  for  troubling  you 
with  my  affairs.  Your  former  kindness  emboldened 
me  too  much.  I  shall  not  trespass  again.  It  was 
my  ignorance,  which  I  pray  you  to  excuse.  I  take 
my  leave,  signore." 

He  bowed,  and  moved  out  of  the  room,  and  a 
ftvdl  remorse  filled  the  painter,  as  he  heard  the  outer 
loor  close  after  him.  But  he  could  do  nothing. 
If  he  had  given  a  wound  to  the  heart  that  trusted 


196  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

him,  it  was  in  an  anguish  which  he  had  not  been 
able  to  master,  and  whose  causes  he  could  not  yet 
define.  It  was  all  a  shapeless  torment ;  it  held  him 
like  the  memory  of  some  hideous  nightmare  pro- 
longing its  horror  beyond  sleep.  It  seemed  impos- 
sible that  what  had  happened  should  have  hap* 
pened. 

It  was  long,  as  he  sat  in  the  chair  from  which  he 
had  talked  with  Don  Ippolito,  before  he  could  rea- 
son about  what  had  been  said  ;  and  then  the  worst 
phase  presented  itself  first.  He  could  not  help  see- 
ing that  the  priest  might  have  found  cause  for  hope 
in  the  girl's  behavior  toward  him.  Her  violent  re- 
sentments, and  her  equally  violent  repentances  ;  her 
fervent  interest  in  his  unhappy  fortunes,  and  her 
anxiety  that  he  should  at  once  forsake  the  priest- 
hood ;  her  urging  him  to  go  to  America,  and  her 
promising  him  a  home  under  her  mother's  roof 
there :  why  might  it  not  all  be  in  fact  a  proof  of 
her  tenderness  for  him  ?  She  might  have  found  it 
necessary  to  be  thus  coarsely  explicit  with  him,  for 
a  man  in  Don  Ippolito's  relation  to  her  could  not 
otherwise  have  imagined  her  interest  in  him.  But 
her  making  use  of  Ferris  to  confirm  her  own  pur- 
poses by  his  words,  her  repeating  them  so  that  they 
should  come  back  to  him  from  Don  Ippolito's  lips, 
her  letting  another  man  go  with  her  to  look  upon 
the  procession  in  which  her  priestly  lover  was  to 
tppear  in  his  sacerdotal  panoply ;  these  things  could 
*ot  be  accounted  for  except  by  that  strain  of  inso 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  191 

lent,  passionate  defiance  which  he  had  noted  in  hei 
from  the  beginning.  Why  should  she  first  tell  Don 
Ippolito  of  their  going  away  ?  "  Well,  I  wish  him 
joy  of  his  bargain, '  said  Ferris  aloud,  and  rising, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  tried  to  cast  off  all  care 
of  a  matter  that  did  not  concern  him.  But  one 
does  not  so  easily  cast  off  a  matter  that  does  not 
concern  one.  He  found  himself  haunted  by  certain 
tones  and  looks  and  attitudes  of  the  young  girl, 
wholly  alien  to  the  character  he  had  just  constructed 
for  her.  They  were  child-like,  trusting,  uncon- 
scious, far  beyond  anything  he  had  yet  known  in 
women,  and  they  appealed  to  him  now  with  a  mad- 
dening pathos.  She  was  standing  there  before  Don 
Ippolito's  picture  as  on  that  morning  when  she 
came  to  Ferris,  looking  anxiously  at  him,  her  inno- 
cent beauty,  troubled  with  some  hidden  care,  hal- 
lowing the  place.  Ferris  thought  of  the  young 
fellow  who  told  him  that  he  had  spent  three  months 
in  a  dull  German  town  because  he  had  the  room 
there  that  was  once  occupied  by  the  girl  who  had 
refused  him ;  the  painter  remembered  that  the 
young  fellow  said  he  had  just  read  of  her  marriage 
in  an  American  newspaper. 

Why  did  Miss  Vervain  send  Don  Ippolito  to  him? 
Was  it  some  scheme  of  her  secret  love  for  the 
priest;  or  mere  coarse  resentment  of  the  cautions 
Ferris  had  once  hinted,  a  piece  of  vulgar  bravado  ? 
But  if  she  had  acted  throughout  in  pure  simplicity, 
n  unwise  goodness  of  heart?  If  Don  Ippolito 


198  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

were  altogether  self-deceived,  and  nothing  but  hei 
unknowing  pity  had  given  him  grounds  of  hope  ? 
He  himself  had  suggested  this  to  the  priest,  and 
now  with  a  different  motive  he  looked  at  it  in  hia 
own  behalf.  A  great  load  began  slowly  to  lift  it- 
Belf  from  Ferris's  heart,  which  could  ache  now  for 
this  most  unhappy  priest.  But  if  his  conjecture 
were  just,  his  duty  would  be  different.  He  must 
not  coldly  acquiesce  and  let  things  take  their  course. 
He  had  introduced  Don  Ippolito  to  the  Vervains ; 
he  was  in  some  sort  responsible  for  him ;  he  must 
gave  them  if  possible  from  the  painful  consequences 
of  the  priest's  hallucination.  But  how  to  do  this 
was  by  no  means  clear.  He  blamed  himself  for 
not  having  been  franker  with  Don  Ippolito  and 
tried  to  make  him  see  that  the  Vervains  might  re- 
gard his  passion  as  a  presumption  upon  their  kind- 
ness to  him,  an  abuse  of  their  hospitable  friendship  ; 
and  yet  how  could  he  have  done  this  without  out- 
rage to  a  sensitive  and  right-meaning  soul  ?  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  seek  Don 
Ippolito,  and  repair  his  fault ;  but  they  had  hardly 
parted  as  friends,  and  his  action  might  be  easily 
misconstrued.  If  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of 
speaking  to  him  of  the  matter  again,  it  appeared 
yet  more  impossible  to  bring  it  before  the  Vervains. 
Like  a  man  of  the  imaginative  temperament  as  he 
was,  he  exaggerated  the  probible  effect,  and  pic- 
tured their  dismay  in  colors  that  made  his  interfer- 
ence seem  a  ludicrous  enoirnity ;  in  fact,  it  would 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  199 

have  been  an  awkward  business  enough  for  one  not 
hampered  by  his  intricate  obligations.  He  felt 
bound  to  the  Vervains,  the  ignorant  young  girl,  and 
the  addle-pated  mother  ;  but  if  he  ought  to  go  to 
them  and  tell  them  what  he  knew,  to  which  of  them 
ought  he  to  speak,  and  how?  In  an  anguish  ol 
perplexity  that  made  the  sweat  stand  in  drops  upon 
his  forehead,  he  smiled  to  think  it  just  possible  that 
Mrs.  Vervain  might  take  the  matter  seriously,  and 
wish  to  consider  the  propriety  of  Florida's  accept- 
ing Don  Ippolito.  But  if  he  spoke  to  the  daughter, 
how  should  he  approach  the  subject  ?  "  Don  Ippo- 
lito tells  me  he  loves  you,  and  he  goes  to  America 
with  the  expectation  that  when  he  has  made  his 
fortune  with  a  patent  back-action  apple-corer,  you 
will  marry  him."  Should  he  say  something  to  this 
purport  ?  And  in  Heaven's  name  what  right  had 
he,  Ferris,  to  say  anything  at  all  ?  The  horrible 
absurdity,  the  inexorable  delicacy  of  his  position 
made  him  laugh. 

On  the  other  hand,  besides,  he  was  bound  to  Don 
Ippolito,  who  had  come  to  him  as  the  nearest  friend 
of  both,  and  confided  in  him.  He  remembered  with 
a  tardy,  poignant  intelligence  how  in  their  first  talk 
of  the  Vervains  Don  Ippolito  had  taken  pains  to 
inform  himself  that  Ferris  was  not  in  love  with 
Florida.  Could  he  be  less  manly  and  generous  than 
fchis  poor  priest,  and  violate  the  sanctity  of  his  con- 
Ideiice?  Ferris  groaned  aloud.  No,  contrive  it 
IB  he  would,  call  it  by  what  fair  name  he  chose,  h« 


200  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

eould  not  commit  this  treachery.  It  was  the  mort 
impossible  to  him  because,  in  this  agony  of  doubt 
as  to  what  he  should  do,  he  now  at  least  read  his 
own  heart  clearly,  and  had  no  longer  a  doubt  what 
was  in  it.  He  pitied  her  for  the  pain  she  must 
suffer.  He  saw  how  her  simple  goodness,  her  blind 
sympathy  with  Don  Ippolito,  and  only  this,  must 
have  led  the  priest  to  the  mistaken  pass  at  which 
he  stood.  But  Ferris  felt  that  the  whole  affair  had 
been  fatally  carried  beyond  his  reach  ;  he  could  do 
nothing  now  but  wait  and  endure.  There  are  cases 
in  which  a  man  must  not  protect  the  woman  he 
loves.  This  was  one. 

The  afternoon  wore  away.  In  the  evening  he 
went  to  the  Piazza,  and  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  at 
Florian's.  Then  he  walked  to  the  Public  Gardens, 
where  he  watched  the  crowd  till  it  thinned  in  the 
twilight  and  left  him  alone.  He  hung  upon  the 
parapet,  looking  off  over  the  lagoon  that  at  last  he 
perceived  to  be  flooded  with  moonlight.  He  des- 
perately called  a  gondola,  and  bade  the  man  row 
him  to  the  public  landing  nearest  the  Vervains', 
and  so  walked  up  the  calle,  and  entered  the  palace 
from  the  campo,  through  the  court  that  on  one  side 
opened  into  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Vervain  was  alone  in  the  room  where  he 
had  always  been  accustomed  to  find  her  daughter 
vith  her,  and  a  chill  as  of  the  impending  change 
lell  upon  him.  He  felt  how  pleasant  it  had  been 
to  find  them  together  ;  with  a  vain,  piercing  regret 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  201 

be  felt  how  much  like  home  the  place  had  been  tc 
him.  Mrs.  Vervain,  indeed,  was  not  changed ;  she 
was  even  more  than  ever  herself,  though  all  that 
she  said  imported  change.  She  seemed  to  observe 
nothing  unwonted  in  him,  and  she  began  to  talk  in 
her  way  of  things  that  she  could  not  know  were  so 
near  his  heart. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Ferris,  I  have  a  little  surprise  for 
you.  Guess  what  it  is  !  " 

"  I  'm  not  good  at  guessing.  I  'd  rather  not 
know  what  it  is  than  have  to  guess  it,"  said  Ferris, 
trying  to  be  light,  under  his  heavy  trouble. 

"  You  won't  try  once,  even  ?  Well,  you  're  go- 
ing to  be  rid  of  us  soon  !  We  are  going  away." 

*'  Yes,  I  knew  that,"  said  Ferris  quietly.  "  Don 
Ippolito  told  me  so  to-day." 

"  And  is  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  Is  n't  it 
rather  sad  ?  Is  n't  it  sudden  ?  Come,  Mr.  Ferris, 
do  be  a  little  complimentary,  for  once  !  " 

"  It 's  sudden,  and  I  can  assure  you  it 's  sad 
enough  for  me,"  replied  the  painter,  in  a  tone 
which  could  not  leave  any  doubt  of  his  sincerity. 

"Well,  so  it  is  for  us,"  quavered  Mrs.  Vervain, 
*  You  have  been  very,  very  good  to  us,"  she  went 
on  more  collectedly,  "  and  we  shall  never  forget  it. 
Florida  has  been  speaking  of  it,  too,  and  she  's  ex- 
hremely  grateful,  and  thinks  we  've  quite  imposed 
ipon  you." 

"  Thanks." 

**  I  suppose  we  have,  but  as  I  always  say,  you  'M 


202  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

the  representative  of  the  country  here.  However, 
that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  We  have  no  rela- 
tivea  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  you  know ;  but  I 
have  a  good  manr  old  friends  in  Providence,  and 
we  're  going  back  there.  We  both  think  I  shall 
be  better  at  home  ;  for  I  'm  sorry  to  say,  Mr. 
Ferris,  that  though  I  don't  complain  of  Venice,  — 
it 's  really  a  beautiful  place,  and  all  that ;  not  the 
least  exaggerated,  —  still  I  don't  think  it's  done 
my  health  much  good ;  or  at  least  I  don't  seem  to 
gain,  don't  you  know,  I  don't  seem  to  gain." 

"  I  'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mrs.  Vervain." 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  ;  but  you  see,  don't  you, 
that  we  must  go?  We  are  going  next  week. 
When  we  've  once  made  up  our  minds,  there  's  no 
object  in  prolonging  the  agony." 

Mrs.  Vervain  adjusted  her  glasses  with  the 
thumb  and  finger  of  her  right  hand,  and  peered  in- 
to Ferris's  face  with  a  gay  smile.  "  But  the  great- 
est part  of  the  surprise  is,"  she  resumed,  lowering 
her  voice  a  little,  "  that  Don  Ippolito  is  going  with 
us." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Ferris  sharply. 

"I  knew  I  should  surprise  you,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Vervain.  "  We  've  been  having  a  regular  confab 
—  clave,  I  mean  —  about  it  here,  and  he  's  all  on 
fire  to  go  to  America ;  though  it  must  be  kept  a 
great  secret  en  his  account,  poor  fellow.  He  's  to 
join  us  in  France,  and  then  he  can  easily  get  intr 
England  with  us.  You  know  he 's  to  give  up  being 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  20& 

*  priest,  and  is  going  to  devote  himself  to  invention 
when  ho  gets  to  America.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  it,  Mr.  Ferris  ?  Quite  strikes  you  dumb, 
does  n't  it  ?  "  triumphed  Mrs.  Vervain.  "  I  sup- 
pose it 's  what  you  would  call  a  wild  goose  chase, 
~~-I  used  to  pick  up  all  those  phrases,  —  but  we 
bhall  carry  it  through." 

Ferris  gasped,  as  though  about  to  speak,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  Don  Ippolito  's  been  here  the  whole  afternoon," 
continued  Mrs.  Vervain,  "  or  rather  ever  since 
about  five  o'clock.  He  took  dinner  with  us,  and 
we  've  been  talking  it  over  and  over.  He  's  so  en- 
thusiastic about  it,  and  yet  he  breaks  down  every 
little  while,  and  seems  quite  to  despair  of  the  un- 
dertaking. But  Florida  won't  let  him  do  that ;  and 
really  it 's  funny,  the  way  he  defers  to  her  judg- 
ment —  you  know  /  always  regard  Florida  as  such 
a  mere  child  —  and  seems  to  take  every  word  she 
says  for  gospel.  But,  shedding  tears,  now :  it 's 
dreadful  in  a  man,  is  n't  it  ?  I  wish  Don  Ippolito 
wouldn't  do  that.  It  makes  one  creep.  I  can't 
feel  that  it 's  manly  ;  can  you  ?  " 

Ferris  found  voice  to  say  something  about  those 
things  being  different  with  the  Latin  races. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  "  I  'm 
glad  that  Americans  don't  shed  tears,  as  a  general 
rule.  Now,  Florida:  you'd  think  she  was  the 
man  all  through  this  business,  she  's  so  perfectly  he- 
loic  about  it ;  that  is,  outwardly :  for  I  can  see  — 


204  A   FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

women  can,  in  each  other,  Mr.  Ferris  —  just  where 
she  's  on  the  point  of  breaking  down,  all  the  while. 
Has  she  evei  spoken  to  you  about  Don  Ippolito  ? 
She  does  think  so  highly  of  your  opinion,  Mr.  Fer- 
ris." 

"  She  does  me  too  much  honor,"  said  Ferris,  with 
ghastly  irony. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Vervain. 
*'  She  told  me  this  morning  that  she  'd  made  Don 
Ippolito  promise  to  speak  to  you  about  it ;  but  he 
didn't  mention  having  done  so,  and — I  hated, 

don't  you  know,  to  ask  him In  fact,  Florida 

had  told  me  beforehand  that  I  must  n't.  She  said 
he  must  be  left  entirely  to  himself  in  that  matter, 
and  "  —  Mrs.  Vervain  looked  suggestively  at  Fer- 
ris. 

"  He  spoke  to  me  about  it,"  said  Ferris. 

"  Then  why  in  the  world  did  you  let  me  run  on  ? 
I  suppose  you  advised  him  against  it." 

"  I  certainly  did." 

"  Well,  there 's  where  I  think  woman's  intuition 
b  better  than  man's  reason." 

The  painter  silently  bowed  his  head. 

"  Yes,  I  'm  quite  woman's  rights  in  that  respect," 
•aid  Mrs.  Vervain. 

"  Oh,  without  doubt,"  answered  Ferris,  aimlessly. 

*•  I  'm  perfectly  delighted,"  she  went  on,  "  at  the 
idea  of  Don  Ippolito's  giving  up  the  priesthood,  and 
IVe  told  him  he  must  get  married  to  some  good 
A.morican  girl.  You  ought  to  have  seen  how  th« 


.1  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  205 

poor  fellow  blushed  !  But  really,  you  know,  there 
are  lots  of  nice  girls  that  would  jump  at  him  —  so 
handsome  and  sad-looking,  and  a  genius." 

Ferris  could  only  stare  helplessly  at  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, who  continued :  — 

"  Yes,  I  think  he  's  a  genius,  and  I  'm  determined 
that  he  shall  have  a  chance.  I  suppose  we  've  got 
a  job  on  our  hands  ;  but  I  'm  not  sorry.  I  '11  in- 
troduce him  into  society,  and  if  he  needs  money  he 
shall  have  it.  What  does  God  give  us  money  for, 
Mr.  Ferris,  but  to  help  our  fellow-creatures  ?  " 

So  miserable,  as  he  was,  from  head  to  foot,  that 
it  seemed  impossible  he  could  endure  more,  Ferris 
could  not  forbear  laughing  at  this  burst  of  piety. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, who  had  cheerfully  joined  him.  "  Something 
I've  been  saying.  Well,  you  won't  have  me  to 
laugh  at  much  longer.  I  do  wonder  whom  you  '11 
have  next." 

Ferris's  merriment  died  away  in  something  like  a 
groan,  and  when  Mrs.  Vervain  again  spoke,  it  was 
in  a  tone  of  sudden  querulousness.  "  I  wish  Florida 
would  come  !  She  went  to  bolt  the  land-gate  after 
Don  Ippolito,  —  I  wanted  her  to,  —  but  she  ought 
to  have  been  back  long  ago.  It 's  odd  you  did  n't 
meet  them,  coming  in.  She  must  be  in  the  garden 
iomewhere  ;  I  suppose  she  's  sorry  to  be  leaving  it. 
But  I  need  her.  Would  you  be  so  very  kind,  Mr, 
fTerris,  as  to  go  and  ask  her  to  come  to  me  ?  " 

Ferris  rose  heavily  from  the  chair  in  which   he 


206  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

ieemed  to  have  grown  ten  years  older.  He  had 
hardly  heard  anything  that  he  did  not  know  al- 
ready, but  the  clear  vision  of  the  affair  with  which 
he  had  come  to  the  Vervains  was  hopelessly  con- 
fused and  darkened.  He  could  make  nothing  of 
any  phase  of  it.  He  did  not  know  whether  he 
cared  now  to  see  Florida  or  not.  He  mechanically 
obeyed  Mrs.  Vervain,  and  stepping  out  upon  the 
terrace,  slowly  descended  the  stairway. 
The  moon  was  shining  brightly  into  the  garden* 


XV. 

FLORIDA  and  Don  Ippolito  had  paused  in  the 
pathway  which  parted  at  the  fountain  and  led  in 
one  direction  to  the  water-gate,  and  in  the  other  out 
through  the  palace-court  into  the  campo. 

"  Now,  you  must  not  give  way  to  despair  again," 
she  said  to  him.  "  You  will  succeed,  I  am  sure, 
for  you  will  deserve  success." 

"It  is  all  your  goodness,  madamigella,"  sighed 
the  priest,  "  and  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  am 
afraid  that  all  the  hope  and  courage  I  have  are  also 
yours." 

"  You  shall  never  want  for  hope  and  courage 
then.  We  believe  in  you,  and  we  honor  your  pur- 
pose, and  we  will  be  your  steadfast  friends.  But 
now  you  must  think  only  of  "the  present  —  of  how 
you  are  to  get  away  from  Venice.  Oh,  I  can  un- 
derstand how  you  must  hate  to  leave  it !  "What  a 
beautiful  night !  You  must  n't  expect  such  moon- 
light as  this  in  America,  Don  Ippolito." 

"  It  is  beautiful,  is  it  not  ? "  said  the  priest, 
kindling  from  her.  "  But  I  think  we  Venetians  are 
never  so  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  Venice  as  you 
itrangers  are." 

"  I  don't  know  I  only  know  that  now,  since  we 
fcave  made  up  our  minds  to  go,  and  fixed  the  day  and 


208  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

hour,  it  is  more  like  leaving  my  own  country  than 
anything  else  I  've  ever  felt.  This  garden,  I  seem 
to  have  spent  my  whole  life  in  it;  and  when  we 
are  settled  in  Providence^  I  'm  going  to  have  mother 
Bend  back  for  some  of  these  statues.  I  suppose 
Signor  Cavaletti  wouldn't  mind  our  robbing  his 
place  of  them  if  he  were  paid  enough.  At  any  rate 
we  must  have  this  one  that  belongs  to  the  fountain. 
You  shall  be  the  first  to  set  the  fountain  playing 
over  there,  Don  Ippolito,  and  then  we  '11  sit  down 
on  this  stone  bench  before  it,  and  imagine  ourselves 
in  the  garden  of  Casa  Vervain  at  Venice." 

"  No,  no ;  let  me  be  the  last  to  set  it  playing 
here,"  said  the  priest,  quickly  stooping  to  the  pipe 
at  the  foot  of  the  figure,  "  and  then  we  will  sit 
down  here,  and  imagine  ourselves  in  the  garden  of 
Casa  Vervain  at  Providence." 

Florida  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  You 
must  n't  do  it,"  she  said  simply.  "  The  padrone 
does  n't  like  to  waste  the  water." 

"  Oh,  we  '11  pray  the  saints  to  rain  it  back  on  him 
some  day,"  cried  Don  Ippolito  with  willful  levity, 
and  the  stream  leaped  into  the  moonlight  and 
seemed  to  hang  there  like  a  tangled  skein  of  silver. 

"  But  how  shall  I  shut  it  off  when  you  are 
gone  ?  "  asked  the  young  girl,  looking  ruefully  at 
the  floating  threads  of  splendor. 

44  Oh,  I  will  shut  it  off  before  I  go,"  answered 
Don  Ippolito.  "  Let  it  play  a  moment,"  he  con- 
tinued, gazing  rapturously  upon  it,  while  the  moor 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION  209 

painted  his  lifted  face  with  a  pallor  that  his  black 
robes  heightened.  He  fetched  a  long,  sighing 
breath,  as  if  he  inhaled  with  that  respiration  all 
the  rich  odors  of  the  flowers,  blanched  like  his  own 
visage  in  the  white  lustre ;  as  if  he  absorbed  into 
his  heart  at  once  the  wide  glory  of  the  summer 
night,  and  the  beauty  of  the  young  girl  at  his  side. 
It  seemed  a  supreme  moment  with  him  ;  he  looked 
as  a  man  might  look  who  has  climbed  out  of  life- 
long defeat  into  a  single  instant  of  release  and  tri- 
umph. 

Florida  sank  upon  the  bench  before  the  fountain, 
indulging  his  caprice  with  that  sacred,  motherly 
tolerance,  some  touch  of  which  is  in  all  womanly 
yielding  to  men's  will,  and  which  was  perhaps 
present  in  greater  degree  in  her  feeling  towards  a 
man  more  than  ordinarily  orphaned  and  unfriended. 

"  Is  Providence  your  native  city  ?  "  asked  Don 
Ippolito,  abruptly,  after  a  little  silence. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  was  born  at  St.  Augustine  in  Flor- 
ida." 

"  Ah  yes,  I  forgot ;  madama  has  told  me  about 
it ;  Providence  is  Tier  city.  But  the  two  are  near 
together  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Florida,  compassionately,  "  they  are 
ft  thousand  miles  apart." 

"  A  thousand  miles  ?     What  a  vast  country  I  " 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  whole  world." 

"  Ah,  a  world,  indeed !  "  cried  the  priest,  softly. 
*  I  shall  never  comprehend  it." 
14 


210  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

"  You  never  will,"  answered  the  young  gir' 
gravely,  "  if  you  do  not  think  about  it  more  practi- 
cally." 

"  Practically,  practically !  "  lightly  retorted  the 
priest.  "  What  a  word  with  you  Americans  . 
That  is  the  consul's  word  :  practical." 

"  Then  you  have  been  to  see  him  to-day  ? " 
asked  Florida,  with  eagerness.  "  I  wanted  to  ask 
you"  — 

"  Yes,  I  went  to  consult  the  oracle,  as  you  bade 


me." 


"  Don  Ippolito  "  — 

"  And  he  was  averse  to  my  going  to  America. 
He  said  it  was  not  practical." 

"  Oh !  "  murmured  the  girl. 

"  I  think,"  continued  the  priest  with  vehemence, 
"  that  Signor  Ferris  is  no  longer  my  friend." 

"  Did  he  treat  you  coldly  —  harshly  ?  "  she  asked 
with  a  note  of  indignation  in  her  voice.  "  Did  he 
know  that  I  —  that  you  came  "  — 

"  Perhaps  he  was  right.  Perhaps  I  shall  indeed 
go  to  ruin  there.  Ruin,  ruin !  Do  I  not  live  ruin 
here?" 

"  What  did  he  say  —  what  did  he  tell  you  ?  " 

"No,  no  ;  not  now,  madamigella  !  I  do  not 
want  to  think  of  that  man,  now.  I  want  you  to 
help  me  once  more  to  realize  myself  in  America, 
where  I  shall  never  have  been  a  priest,  where  I 
ihall  at  least  battle  even-handed  with  the  world 
Come,  let  us  forget  him ;  the  thought  of  him  pal 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  211 

lies  all  my  hope.  He  could  not  see  me  save  in  this 
tobe,  in  this  figure  that  I  abhor." 

"  Oh,  it  was  strange,  it  was  not  like  him,  it  was 
cruel !  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  In  everything  but  words,  he  bade  me  despair ; 
he  bade  me  look  upon  all  that  makes  life  dear  and 
noble  as  impossible  to  me  1  " 

"  Oh,  how  ?  Perhaps  he  did  not  understand 
you.  No,  he  did  not  understand  you.  What  did 
you  say  to  him,  Don  Ippolito  ?  Tell  me !  "  She 
leaned  towards  him,  in  anxious  emotion,  as  she 
spoke. 

The  priest  rose,  and  stretched  out  his  arms,  as  if 
he  would  gather  something  of  courage  from  the  in- 
finite space.  In  his  visage  were  the  sublimity  and 
the  terror  of  a  man  who  puts  everything  to  the  risk, 

"  How  will  it  really  be  with  me,  yonder  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "As  it  is  with  other  men,  whom  their 
past  life,  if  it  has  been  guiltless,  does  not  follow  to 
that  new  world  of  freedom  and  justice  ?  " 

"  Why  should  it  not  be  so  ?  "  demanded  Florida. 
"  Did  he  say  it  would  not  ?  " 

"Need  it  be  known  there  that  I  have  been  a 
priest  ?  Or  if  I  tell  it,  will  it  make  me  appear  a 
kind  of  monster,  different  from  other  men  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  answered  fervently.  "  Your 
jtory  would  gain  friends  and  honor  for  you  every- 
where in  America.  Did  he  "  — 

44  A  moment,  a  moment !  "  cried  Don  Ippolito, 
Hitching  his  breath.  "  Will  it  ever  be  possible  lot 


212  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

me  to  will  something  more  than  honor  and  friend 
ship  there  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  askingly,  confusedly. 

"  If  I  am  a  man,  and  the  time  should  ever  come 
that  a  face,  a  look,  a  voice,  shall  be  to  me  what  they 
are  to  other  men,  will  she  remember  it  against  me 
that  I  have  been  a  priest,  when  I  tell  her  —  say  to 
her,  madamigella  —  how  dear  she  is  to  me,  offer  her 
my  life's  devotion,  ask  her  to  be  my  wife  ?".... 

Florida  rose  from  the  seat,  and  stood  confronting 
him,  in  a  helpless  silence,  which  he  seemed  not  to 
notice. 

Suddenly  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  and  des- 
perately stretched  them  towards  her. 

"  Oh,  my  hope,  my  trust,  my  life,  if  it  were  you 
that  I  loved  ?".  .  .  . 

"  What !  "  shuddered  the  girl,  recoiling,  with  al- 
most a  shriek.  "  You  ?  A  priest !  " 

Don  Ippolito  gave  a  low  cry,  half  sob :  — 

"  His  words,  his  words !  It  is  true,  I  cannot 
escape,  I  am  doomed,  I  must  die  as  I  have  lived ! " 

He  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands,  and  stood 
with  his  head  bowed  before  her  ;  neither  spoke  for 
i  long  time,  or  moved. 

Then  Florida  said  absently,  in  the  husky  mur- 
mur to  which  her  voice  fell  when  she  was  strongly 
moved,  "  Yes,  I  see  it  all,  how  it  has  been,"  and 
was  silent  again,  staring,  as  if  a  procession  of  the 
events  and  scenes  of  the  past  months  were  passing 
before  her ;  and  presently  she  moaned  to  herself 
*  Oh,  oh,  oh  I  "  and  wrung  her  hands. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  218 

The  foolish  fountain  kept  capering  and  babbling 
Dn.  All  at  once,  now,  as  a  flame  flashes  up  and 
then  expires,  it  leaped  and  dropped  extinct  at  the 
foot  of  the  statue. 

Its  going  out  seemed  somehow  to  leave  them  in 
darkness,  and  under  cover  of  that  gloom  she  drew 
nearer  the  priest,  and  by  such  approaches  as  one 
makes  toward  a  fancied  apparition,  when  his  fear 
will  not  let  him  fly,  but  it  seems  better  to  suffer  the 
worst  from  it  at  once  than  to  live  in  terror  of  it  ever 
after,  she  lifted  her  hands  to  his,  and  gently  taking 
them  away  from  his  face,  looked  into  his  hopeless 


"  Oh,  Don  Ippolito,"  she  grieved.  "  What  shall 
I  say  to  you,  what  can  I  do  for  you,  now  ?  " 

But  there  was  nothing  to  do.  The  whole  edifice 
of  his  dreams,  his  wild  imaginations,  had  fallen  into 
dust  at  a  word  ;  no  magic  could  rebuild  it  ;  the  end 
that  never  seems  the  end  had  come.  He  let  her 
keep  his  cold  hands,  and  presently  he  returned  the 
entreaty  of  her  tears  with  his  wan,  patient  smile. 

"  You  cannot  help  me ;  there  is  no  help  for  an 
error  like  mine.  Sometime,  if  ever  the  thought  of 
me  is  a  greater  pain  than  it  is  at  this  moment,  you 
can  forgive  me.  Yes,  you  can  do  that  for  me." 

"  But  who,  who  will  ever  forgive  me"  she  cried, 
"  for  my  blindness  !  Oh,  you  must  believe  that  J 
lever  thought,  I  never  dreamt "  — 

"  I  know  it  well.  It  was  your  fatal  truth  that 
lid  it ;  truth  too  high  and  fine  for  me  to  have  dis- 
terned  save  through  such  agony  as  ....  You  too 


.      A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

loved  my  soul,  like  the  rest,  and  you  would  hav€ 
had  me  no  priest  for  the  reason  that  they  would 
have  had  me  a  priest  —  I  see  it.  But  you  had  no 
right  to  love  my  soul  and  not  me  —  you,  a  woman. 
A  woman  must  not  love  only  the  soul  of  a  man." 

"  Yes,  yes  ! "  piteously  explained  the  girl,  "  but 
you  were  a  priest  to  me  I  " 

"That  is  true,  madamigella.  I  was  always  a 
priest  to  you  ;  and  now  I  see  that  I  never  could  be 
otherwise.  Ah,  the  wrong  began  many  years  be- 
fore we  met.  I  was  trying  to  blame  you  a  lit- 
tle"— 

"  Blame  me,  blame  me  ;  do !  " 

—  "but  there  is  no  blame.  Think  that  it  was 
another  way  of  asking  your  forgiveness.  .  .  .  O  my 
God,  my  God,  my  God ! " 

Ho  released  his  hands  from  her,  and  uttered  this 
cry  under  his  breath,  with  his  face  lifted  towards 
the  heavens.  When  he  looked  at  her  again,  he 
said :  "  Madamigella,  if  my  share  of  this  misery 
gives  me  the  right  to  ask  of  you  "  — 

"  Oh  ask  anything  of  me !  I  will  give  every- 
thing, do  everything !  " 

He  faltered,  and  then,  "  You  do  not  love  me,"  he 
•aid  abruptly ;  "  is  there  some  one  else  that  you 
We?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"I&it  .  .  .  he?" 

She  hid  her  face. 

"  I  knew  it,"  groaned  the  priest,  "  I  knew  thai 
too !  "  and  he  turned  away. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  215 

"Don  Ippolito,  Don  Ippolito  —  oh,  poor,  poor 
Don  Ippolito ! "  cried  the  girl,  springing  towards 
him.  "  Is  Ms  the  way  you  leave  me  ?  Where 
we  you  going  ?  What  will  you  do  now  ?  " 

"  Did  I  not  say  ?    I  am  going  to  die  a  priest." 

"  Is  there  nothing  that  you  will  let  me  be  to  you, 
hope  for  you?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Don  Ippolito,  after  a  moment. 
"  What  could  you  ?  "  He  seized  the  hands  implor- 
ingly extended  towards  him,  and  clasped  them  to- 
gether and  kissed  them  both.  "  Adieu  ! "  he  whis- 
pered ;  then  he  opened  them,  and  passionately 
kissed  either  palm  ;  "  adieu,  adieu  I  " 

A  great  wave  of  sorrow  and  compassion  and  de- 
spair for  him  swept  through  her.  She  flung  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  pulled  his  head  down  upon 
her  heart,  and  held  it  tight  there,  weeping  and 
moaning  over  him  as  over  some  hapless,  harmless 
thing  that  she  had  unpurposely  bruised  or  killed. 
Then  she  suddenly  put  her  hands  against  his  breast, 
and  thrust  him  away,  and  turned  and  ran. 

Ferris  stepped  back  again  into  the  shadow  of  the 
tree  from  which  he  had  just  emerged,  and  clung  to 
ite  trunk  lest  he  should  fall.  Another  seemed  to 
creep  out  of  the  court  in  his  person,  and  totter 
across  the  white  glare  of  the  campo  and  down  the 
blackness  of  the  calle.  In  the  intersected  spaces 
where  the  moonlight  fell,  this  alien,  miserable  man 
law  the  figure  of  a  priest  gliding  on  before  him. 


XVI. 

FLORIDA  swiftly  mounted  the  terrace  steps,  but 
ihe  stopped  with  her  hand  on  the  door,  panting,  and 
turned  and  walked  slowly  away  to  the  end  of  the 
terrace,  drying  her  eyes  with  dashes  of  her  hand- 
kerchief, and  ordering  her  hair,  some  coils  of  which 
had  been  loosened  by  her  flight.  Then  she  went 
back  to  the  door,  waited,  and  softly  opened  it. 
Her  mother  was  not  in  the  parlor  where  she  had 
left  her,  and  she  passed  noiselessly  into  her  own 
room,  where  some  trunks  stood  open  and  half- 
packed  against  the  wall.  She  began  to  gather  up 
the  pieces  of  dress  that  lay  upon  the  bed  and  chairs, 
and  to  fold  them  with  mechanical  carefulness  and 
put  them  in  the  boxes.  Her  mother's  voice  called 
from  the  other  chamber,  "  Is  that  you,  Florida  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  answered  the  girl,  but  remained 
kneeling  before  one  of  the  boxes,  with  that  pale 
green  robe  in  her  hand  which  she  had  worn  on  the 
morning  when  Ferris  had  first  brought  Don  Ippo- 
lito  to  see  them.  She  smoothed  its  folds  and  looked 
down  at  it  without  making  any  motion  to  pack  it 
away,  and  so  she  lingered  while  her  mother  ad- 
vanced with  one  question  after  another ;  ;t  What  are 
you  doing,  Florida  ?  Where  are  you  ?  Why  did  n't 
you  come  to  me  ?  "  and  finally  stood  in  the  door 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION  217 

If  ay ,  "  Oh,  you  're  packing.  Do  you  know,  Flor 
.da,  I  'm  getting  very  impatient  about  going.  1 
wish  we  could  be  off  at  once." 

A  tremor  passed  over  the  young  girl  and  she 
itarted  from  her  languid  posture,  and  laid  the  dress 
in  the  trunk.  "  So  do  I,  mother.  I  would  give  the 
world  if  we  could  go  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Yes,  but  we  can't,  you  see.  I  'm  afraid  we  Ve 
undertaken  a  great  deal,  my  dear.  It 's  quite  a 
weight  upon  my  mind,  already ;  and  I  don't  know 
what  it  will  be.  If  we  were  free,  now,  I  should 
say,  go  to-morrow,  by  all  means.  But  we  could  n't 
arrange  it  with  Don  Ippolito  on  our  hands." 

Florida  waited  a  moment  before  she  replied. 
Then  she  said  coldly,  "  Don  Ippolito  is  not  going 
with  us,  mother." 

"  Not  going  with  us  ?     Why  "  — 

"  He  is  not  going  to  America.  He  will  not  leave 
Venice ;  he  is  to  remain  a  priest,"  said  Florida,  dog- 
gedly. 

Mrs.  Vervain  sat  down  in  the  chair  that  stood 
beside  the  door.  "  Not  going  to  America ;  not 
leave  Venice  ;  remain  a  priest  ?  Florida,  you  as- 
tonish me  !  But  I  am  not  the  least  surprised,  not 
the  least  in  the  world.  I  thought  Don  Ippolito 
would  give  out,  all  along.  He  is  not  what  I  should 
call  fickle,  exactly,  but  he  is  weak,  or  timid,  rather. 
He  is  a  good  man,  but  he  lacks  courage,  resolution, 
J  always  doubted  if  he  would  succeed  in  America  ; 
he  is  too  much  of  a  dreamer.  But  this,  really,  goe* 


218  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

a  little  beyond  anything.  I  never  expected  thia, 
What  did  he  say,  Florida?  How  did  he  excuse 
kimself?" 

**  I  hardly  know  ;  very  little.  What  was  there 
to  say?" 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  Did  you  try  to  reason 
with  him,  Florida?" 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl,  drearily. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  think  you  had  said  quite 
enough  already.  You  owed  it  to  yourself  not  to  do 
BO,  and  he  might  have  misinterpreted  it.  These 
foreigners  are  very  different  from  Americans.  No 
doubt  we  should  have  had  a  time  of  it,  if  he  had 
gone  with  us.  It  must  be  for  the  best.  I  'm  sure 
it  was  ordered  so.  But  all  tkat  does  n't  relieve 
Don  Ippolito  from  the  charge  of  black  ingratitude, 
and  want  of  consideration  for  us.  He  's  quite  made 
fools  of  us." 

"  He  was  not  to  blame.  It  was  a  very  great  step 
for  him.  And  if  "  .... 

"  I  know  that.  But  he  ought  not  to  have  talked 
of  it.  He  ought  to  have  known  his  own  mind  fully 
before  speaking  ;  that 's  the  only  safe  way.  Well, 
then,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  our  going  to-mor- 
row." 

Florida  drew  a  long  breath,  and  rose  to  go  on 
with  the  work  of  packing. 

"  Have  you  been  crying,  Florida  ?  Well,  oi 
rourse,  you  can't  help  feeling  sorry  for  such  a  man. 
There  's  a  great  deal  of  good  in  Don  Ippolito,  a 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  219 

great  deal.  But  when  you  come  to  my  age  yea 
won't  cry  so  easily,  my  dear.  It 's  very  trying," 
laid  Mrs.  Vervain.  She  sat  awhile  in  silence  be- 
fore she  asked:  "Will  he  come  here  to-morrow 
morning  ?  " 

Her  daughter  looked  at  her  with  a  glance  of  ter- 
rified inquiry. 

"  Do  have  your  wits  about  you,  my  dear  !  We 
can't  go  away  without  saying  good-by  to  him,  and 
we  can't  go  away  without  paying  him." 

44  Paying  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  paying  him  —  paying  him  for  your  les- 
sons. It 's  always  been  very  awkward.  He  has  n't 
been  like  other  teachers,  you  know:  more  like  a 
guest,  or  friend  of  the  family.  He  never  seemed 
to  want  to  take  the  money,  and  of  late,  I  've  been 
letting  it  run  along,  because  I  hated  so  to  offer  it, 
till  now,  it 's  quite  a  sum.  I  suppose  he  needs  it, 
poor  fellow.  And  how  to  get  it  to  him  is  the  ques- 
tion. He  may  not  come  to-morrow,  as  usual,  and 
I  could  n't  trust  it  to  the  padrone.  We  might 
send  it  to  him  in  a  draft  from  Paris,  but  I  'd  rather 
pay  him  before  we  go.  Besides,  it  would  be  rather 
rude,  going  away  without  seeing  him  again."  Mrs. 
Vervain  thought  a  moment ;  then,  "  I  '11  tell  you," 
ahe  resumed.  "If  he  does  n't  happen  to  come  here 
to-morrow  morning,  we  can  stop  on  our  way  to  the 
itation  and  give  him  the  money." 

Florida  did  not  answer. 

**  Don't  you  think  that  would  be  a  good  plan  ?  *' 


220  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

**  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  girl  in  a  dull  way* 

"  Why,  Florida,  if  you  think  from  anything  Don 
Ippolito  said  that  he  would  rather  not  see  us  again 
—  that  it  would  be  painful  to  him  —  why,  we  could 
ask  Mr.  Ferris  to  hand  him  the  money." 

"  Oh  no,  no,  no,  mother !  "  cried  Florida,  hiding 
her  face,  "  that  would  be  too  horribly  indelicate !  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  would  n't  be  quite  good  taste," 
said  Mrs,  Vervain  perturbedly,  "but  you  needn't 
express  yourself  so  violently,  my  dear.  It 's  not  a 
matter  of  life  and  death.  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  We  must  stop  at  Don  Ippolito'a 
house,  I  suppose.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  faintly  assented  the  daughter. 

Mrs.  Vervain  yawned.  "  Well  I  can't  think 
anything  more  about  it  to-night ;  I  'm  too  stupid. 
But  that 's  the  way  we  shall  do.  Will  you  help  me 
to  bed,  my  dear  ?  I  shall  be  good  for  nothing  to- 
morrow." 

She  went  on  talking  of  Don  Ippolito's  change  of 
purpose  till  her  head  touched  the  pillow,  from 
which  she  suddenly  lifted  it  again,  and  called  out  to 
her  daughter,  who  had  passed  into  the  next  room  : 
"  But  Mr.  Ferris  —  why  did  n't  he  come  back  with 
you?" 

44  Come  back  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  child.  I  sent  him  out  to  call  you, 
just  before  you  came  in.  This  Don  Ippolito  busi- 
ness put  him  quite  out  of  my  head.  Did  n't  yon 
lee  him  ?  .  Oh !  What 's  that  ?  " 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLLSION.  221 

44  Nothing :  I  dropped  my  candle." 

44  You  're  sure  you  did  n't  set  anything  on  fire  ?  " 

44  No !     It  went  dead  out." 

44  Light  it  again,  and  do  look.  Now  is  everything 
right?" 

44  Yes." 

44  It 's  queer  he  did  n't  come  back  to  say  he 
could  n't  find  you.  What  do  you  suppose  became 
of  him  ?  " 

44 1  don't  know,  mother.' 

44  It 's  very  perplexing.  I  wish  Mr.  Ferris  were 
not  so  odd.  It  quite  borders  on  affectation.  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  We  must  send  word  to 
him  the  very  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,  that 
we  're  going,  and  ask  him  to  come  to  see  us." 

Florida  made  no  reply.  She  sat  staring  at  the 
black  space  of  the  door-way  into  her  mother's  room. 
Mrs.  Vervain  did  not  speak  again.  After  a  while 
her  daughter  softly  entered  her  chamber,  shading 
the  candle  with  her  hand;  and  seeing  that  she 
slept,  softly  withdrew,  closed  the  door,  and  went 
about  the  work  of  packing  again.  When  it  was  all 
done,  she  flung  herself  upon  her  bed  and  hid  her 
face  in  the  pillow. 

The  next  morning  was  spent  in  bestowing  those 
Cnterminable  last  touches  which  the  packing  of  la- 
dies' baggage  demands,  and  in  taking  leave  with 
largess  (in  which  Mrs.  Varvain  shone)  of  all  the 
people  in  the  house  and  out  of  it,  who  had  so  much 


222  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

BS  touched  a  hat  to  the  Vervains  during  their  90 
journ.  The  whole  was  not  a  vast  sum ;  nor  did  the 
sundry  extortions  of  the  padrone  come  to  much, 
though  the  honest  man  racked  his  brain  to  invent 
injuries  to  his  apartments  and  furniture.  Being 
unmurmuringly  paid,  he  gave  way  to  his  real  good- 
will for  his  tenants  in  many  little  useful  offices. 
At  the  end  he  persisted  in  sending  them  to  the  sta- 
tion in  his  own  gondola  and  could  with  difficulty  be 
kept  from  going  with  them. 

Mrs.  Vervain  had  early  sent  a  message  to  Ferris, 
but  word  came  back  a  first  and  a  second  time  that 
he  was  not  at  home,  and  the  forenoon  wore  away 
and  he  had  not  appeared.  A  certain  indignation 
sustained  her  till  the  gondola  pushed  out  into  the 
canal,  and  then  it  yielded  to  an  intolerable  regret 
that  she  should  not  see  him. 

"  I  can't  go  without  saying  good-by  to  Mr.  Fer- 
ris, Florida,"  she  said  at  last,  "  and  it 's  no  use  ask- 
ing me.  He  may  have  been  wanting  a  little  in 
politeness,  but  he 's  been  so  good  all  along  ;  and  we 
owe  him  too  much  not  to  make  an  effort  to  thank 
him  before  we  go.  We  really  must  stop  a  moment 
at  his  house." 

Florida,  who  had  regarded  her  mother's  efforts  to 
summon  Ferris  to  them  with  passive  coldness, 
Lurned  a  look  of  agony  upon  her.  But  in  a  moment 
ihe  bade  the  gondolier  stop  at  the  consulate,  and 
dropping  her  veil  over  her  face,  fell  back  in  th« 
thadow  of  the  tenda-curtains. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Mrs.  Vervain  sentimentalized  their  departure  a 
little,  but  her  daughter  made  no  comment  on  the 
icene  they  were  leaving. 

The  gondolier  rang  at  Ferris's  door  and  returned 
with  the  answer  that  he  was  not  at  home. 

Mrs.  Vervain  gave  way  to  despair.  "  Oh  dear, 
oh  dear !  This  is  too  bad  !  What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  We  '11  lose  the  train,  mother,  if  we  loiter  in  this 
way,"  said  Florida. 

"  Well,  wait.  I  must  leave  a  message  at  least." 
"  How  could  you  be  away"  she  wrote  on  her  card, 
"  when  we  called  to  say  good-by  ?  We  've  changed 
our  plans  and  we  're  going  to-day.  I  shall  write  you 
a  nice  scolding  letter  from  Verona — we're  going 
over  the  Brenner — for  your  behavior  last  night. 
Who  will  keep  you  straight  when  Pm  gone  ?  You  9ve 
been  very,  very  kind.  Florida  joins  me  in  a  thou- 
sand thanks,  regrets,  and  good-byes" 

"  There,  I  have  n't  said  anything,  after  all,"  she 
fretted,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  gondolier  carried  the  card  again  to  the  door, 
where  Ferris's  servant  let  down  a  basket  by  a  string 
and  fished  it  up. 

"  If  Don  Ippolito  should  n't  be  in,"  said  Mrs. 
Vervain,  as  the  boat  moved  on  again,  "  I  don't 
know  what  I  shall  do  with  this  money.  It  will  be 
jiwkward  beyond  anything." 

The  gondola  slipped  fr">m  the  Canalazzo  into  the 
network  of  the  smaller  canals,  where  the  dense 
tfcadows  were  as  old  as  the  palacea  that  cast  them, 


224  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

and  stopped  at  the  landing  of  a  narrow  quay.  Tht 
gondolier  dismounted  and  rang  at  Don  Ippolito'a 
door.  There  was  no  response ;  he  rang  again  and 
again.  At  last  from  a  window  of  the  uppermost 
Btory  the  head  of  the  priest  himself  peered  out. 
rhe  gondolier  touched  his  hat  and  said,  "It  is  the 
ladies  who  ask  for  you,  Don  Ippolito." 

It  was  a  minute  before  the  door  opened,  and  the 
priest,  bare-headed  and  blinking  in  the  strong  light, 
came  with  a  stupefied  air  across  the  quay  to  the 
landing-steps. 

"  Well,  Don  Ippolito !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vervain, 
rising  and  giving  him  her  hand,  which  she  first 
waved  at  the  trunks  and  bags  piled  up  in  the 
vacant  space  in  the  front  of  the  boat,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  this  ?  We  are  really  going,  immediately  ; 
we  can  change  our  minds  too ;  and  I  don't  think  it 
would  have  been  too  much,"  she  added  with  a 
friendly  smile,  "if  we  had  gone  without  saying 
good-by  to  you.  What  in  the  world  does  it  all 
mean,  your  giving  up  that  grand  project  of  yours  so 
suddenly?" 

She  sat  down  again,  that  she  might  talk  more  at 
her  ease,  and  seemed  thoroughly  happy  to  have 
Don  Ippolito  before  her  again. 

"It  finally  appeared  best,  madama,"  he  said 
quietly,  after  a  quick,  keen  glance  at  Florida,  who 
did  not  lift  her  veil. 

**  Well,    perhaps    you  're    partly   right.     But   1 

l't  ^relp  thinking  that  you  with  your  talent  would 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  226 

have  succeeded  in  America.  Inventors  do  get  on 
there,  in  the  most  surprising  way.  There 's  the 
Screw  Company  of  Providence.  It 's  such  a  simple 
thing ;  and  now  the  shares  are  worth  eight  hun- 
dred. Are  you  well  to-day,  Don  Ippolito  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,  madama." 

"  I  thought  you  looked  rather  pale.  But  I  be- 
lieve you  Tre  always  a  little  pale.  You  must  n't 
work  too  hard.  We  shall  miss  you  a  great  deal, 
Don  Ippolito." 

"  Thanks,  madama." 

"  Yes,  we  shall  be  quite  lost  without  you.  And 
1  wanted  to  say  this  to  you,  Don  Ippolito,  that  if 
ever  you  change  your  mind  again,  and  conclude  to 
come  to  America,  you  must  write  to  me,  and  let  me 
help  you  just  as  I  had  intended  to  do." 

The  priest  shivered,  as  if  cold,  and  gave  another 
look  at  Florida's  veiled  face. 

"  You  are  too  good,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  really  think  I  am,"  replied  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, playfully.  "  Considering  that  you  were  going 
to  let  me  leave  Venice  without  even  trying  to  say 
good-by  to  me,  I  think  I  'm  very  good  indeed." 

Mrs.  Vervain's  mood  became  overcast,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears :  "  I  hope  you  're  sorry  to 
have  us  going,  Don  Ippolito,  for  you  know  how 
very  highly  I  prize  your  acquaintance.  It  was 
rather  cruel  of  you,  I  think." 

She  seemed  not  to  remember  that  he  could  not 
kave  known  of  their  change  ol  plan.  Don  Ippolito 
15 


226  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

{ooked  imploringly  into  her  face,  and  made  a  touch- 
ing gesture  of  deprecation,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  I  'm  really  afraid  you  're  not  well,  and  I  think 
it 's  too  bad  of  us  to  be  going,"  resumed  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain ;  "  but  it  can't  be  helped  now :  we  are  all 
packed,  don't  you  see.  But  I  want  to  ask  one 
favor  of  you,  Don  Ippolito  ;  and  that  is,"  said  Mrs. 
Vervain,  covertly  taking  a  little  rouleau  from  her 
pocket,  "  that  you  '11  leave  these  inventions  of  yours 
for  a  while,  and  give  yourself  a  vacation.  You 
need  rest  of  mind.  Go  into  the  country,  some- 
where, do.  That's  what's  preying  upon  you. 
But  we  must  really  be  off,  now.  Shake  hands  with 
Florida  —  I  'm  going  to  be  the  last  to  part  with 
you,"  she  said,  with  a  tearful  smile. 

Don  Ippolito  and  Florida  extended  their  hands. 
Neither  spoke,  and  as  she  sank  back  upon  the  seat 
from  which  she  had  half  risen,  she  drew  more 
closely  the  folds  of  the  veil  which  she  had  not  lifted 
from  her  face. 

Mrs.  Vervain  gave  a  little  sob  as  Don  Ippolito 
took  her  hand  and  kissed  it ;  and  she  had  some 
difficulty  in  leaving  with  him  the  rouleau,  which  she 
tried  artfully  to  press  into  his  palm.  "  Good-by, 
good-by,"  she  said,  "  don't  drop  it,"  and  attempted 
to  close  his  fingers  over  it. 

But  he  let  it  lie  carelessly  in  his  open  hand,  as 
Ihe  gondola  moved  off,  and  there  it  still  lay  as  he 
itood  watching  the  boat  slip  under  a  bridge  at  the 
next  corner,  and  disappear.  While  he  stood  thert 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLTTSION.  227 

gazing  at  the  empty  arch,  a  man  of  a  wild  and  sav- 
age aspect  approached.  It  was  said  that  this  man's 
brain  had  been  turned  by  the  death  of  his  brother, 
who  was  betrayed  to  the  Austrians  after  the  revolu- 
tion of  '48,  by  his  wife's  confessor.  He  advanced 
with  swift  strides,  and  at  the  moment  he  reached 
Don  Ippolito's  side  he  suddenly  turned  his  face  upon 
him  and  cursed  him  through  his  clenched  teeth: 
"  Dog  of  a  priest !  " 

Don  Ippolito,  as  if  his  whole  race  had  renounced 
him  in  the  maniac's  words,  uttered  a  desolate  cry, 
and  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands,  tottered  into  his 
house. 

The  rouleau  had  dropped  from  his  palm  ;  it 
rolled  down  the  shelving  marble  of  the  quay,  and 
slipped  into  the  water. 

The  young  beggar  who  had  held  Mrs.  Vervain's 
gondola  fco  the  shore  while  she  talked,  looked  up 
and  down  the  deserted  quay,  and  at  the  doors  and 
windows.  Then  he  began  to  take  off  his  clothes 
for  a  bath. 


xvn. 

FERRIS  returned  at  nightfall  to  his  house,  where 
he  had  not  been  since  daybreak,  and  flung  himself 
exhausted  upon  the  bed.  His  face  was  burnt  red 
with  the  sun,  and  his  eyes  were  bloodshot.  He  fell 
into  a  doze  and  dreamed  that  he  was  still  at  Mala- 
mocco,  whither  he  had  gone  that  morning  in  a  sort 
of  craze,  with  some  fishermen,  who  were  to  cast 
their  nets  there ;  then  he  was  rowing  back  to 
Venice  across  the  lagoon,  that  seemed  a  molten  fire 
under  the  keel.  He  woke  with  a  heavy  groan,  and 
bade  Marina  fetch  him  a  light. 

She  set  it  on  the  table,  and  handed  him  the  card 
Mrs.  Vervain  had  left.  He  read  it  and  read  it 
again,  and  then  he  laid  it  down,  and  putting  on 
his  hat,  he  took  his  cane  and  went  out.  "  Do  not 
wait  for  me,  Marina,"  he  said,  "  I  may  be  late. 
Go  to  bed." 

He  returned  at  midnight,  and  lighting  his  candlft 
took  up  the  card  and  read  it  once  more.  He  could 
not  tell  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  that  he  had 
failed  to  see  the  Vervains  again.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  Don  Ippolito  was  to  follow  ;  he  would 
not  ask  himself  what  motive  had  hastened  their  go- 
ing. The  reasons  were  all  that  he  should  never 
more  look  upon  the  woman  so  hatefully  lost  to  him, 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  229 

but  a  strong  instinct  of  his  heart  struggled  against 
them. 

He  lay  down  in  his  clothes,  and  began  to  dream 
almost  before  he  began  to  sleep.  He  woke  early, 
and  went  out  to  walk.  He  did  not  rest  all  day 
Once  he  came  home,  and  found  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Vervain,  postmarked  Verona,  reiterating  her  lam- 
entations and  adieux,  and  explaining  that  the 
priest  had  relinquished  his  purpose,  and  would  not 
go  to  America  at  all.  The  deeper  mystery  in 
which  this  news  left  him  was  not  less  sinister  than 
before. 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  Ferris  had  no  other 
purpose  than  to  reduce  the  days  to  hours,  the  hours 
to  minutes.  The  burden  that  fell  upon  him  when 
he  woke  lay  heavy  on  his  heart  till  night,  and  op- 
pressed him  far  into  his  sleep.  He  could  not  give 
bis  trouble  certain  shape ;  what  was  mostly  with 
him  was  a  formless  loss,  which  he  could  not  resolve 
into  any  definite  shame  or  wrong.  At  times,  what 
he  had  seen  seemed  to  him  some  baleful  trick  of  the 
imagination,  some  lurid  and  foolish  illusion. 

But  he  could  do  nothing,  he  could  not  ask  him- 
self what  the  end  was  to  be.  He  kept  indoors  by 
iay,  trying  to  work,  trying  to  read,  marveling 
lomewhat  that  he  did  not  fall  sick  and  die.  At 
light  he  set  out  on  long  walks,  which  took  him  he 
ared  not  where,  and  often  detained  him  till  the 
gray  lights  of  morning  began  to  tremble  through 
the  nocturnal  blue.  But  even  by  night  he  shunned 


280  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

fche  neighborhood  in  which  the  Vervains  had  lived, 
Their  landlord  sent  him  a  package  of  trifles  they 
had  left  behind,  but  he  refused  to  receive  them, 
Bending  back  word  that  he  did  not  know  where  the 
ladies  were.  He  had  half  expected  that  Mrs.  Ver- 
vain, though  he  had  not  answered  her  last  letter, 
might  write  to  him  again  from  England,  but  she 
did  not.  The  Vervains  had  passed  out  of  hia 
world ;  he  knew  that  they  had  been  in  it  only  by 
the  torment  they  had  left  him. 

He  wondered  in  a  listless  way  that  he  should  see 
nothing  of  Don  Ippolito.  Once  at  midnight  he 
fancied  that  the  priest  was  coming  towards  him 
across  a  campo  he  had  just  entered  ;  he  stopped  and 
turned  back  into  the  calle :  when  the  priest  came 
up  to  him,  it  was  not  Don  Ippolito. 

In  these  days  Ferris  received  a  dispatch  from  the 
Department  of  State,  informing  him  that  his  suc- 
cessor had  been  appointed,  and  directing  him  to 
deliver  up  the  consular  flags,  seals,  archives,  and 
other  property  of  the  United  States.  No  reason 
for  his  removal  was  given ;  but  as  there  had  never 
been  any  reason  for  his  appointment,  he  had  no 
right  to  complain  ;  the  balance  was  exactly  dressed 
by  this  simple  device  of  our  civil  service.  He  de- 
termined not  to  wait  for  the  coming  of  his  succes- 
ior  before  giving  up  the  consular  effects,  and  he 
placed  them  at  once  in  the  keeping  of  the  worthy 
ihip-chandler  who  had  so  often  transferred  them 
from  departing  to  arriving  consuls.  Then  being 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  231 

quite  ready  at  any  moment  to  leave  Venice,  he 
found  himself  in  nowise  eager  to  go  ;  but  he  began 
in  a  desultory  way  to  pack  up  his  sketches  and 
studies. 

One  morning  as  he  sat  idle  in  his  dismantled 
studio,  Marina  came  to  tell  him  that  an  old  woman, 
waiting  at  the  door  below,  wished  to  speak  with 
him. 

"  Well,  let  her  come  up,"  said  Ferris  wearily, 
and  presently  Marina  returned  with  a  very  ill-fa- 
vored beldam,  who  stared  hard  at  him  while  he 
frowningly  puzzled  himself  as  to  where  he  had  seen 
that  malign  visage  before. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  harshly. 

"  I  come,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "  on  the 
part  of  Don  Ippolito  Rondinelli,  who  desires  so 
much  to  see  your  excellency." 

Ferris  made  no  response,  while  the  old  woman 
knotted  the  fringe  of  her  shawl  with  quaking  hands, 
and  presently  added  with  a  tenderness  in  her  voice 
which  oddly  discorded  with  the  hardness  of  her 
face  :  "  He  has  been  very  sick,  poor  thing,  with  a 
fever ;  but  now  he  is  in  his  senses  again,  and  the 
doctors  say  he  will  get  well.  I  hope  so.  But  he  is 
still  very  weak.  He  tried  to  write  two  lines  to  you, 
out  he  had  not  the  strength  ;  so  he  bade  me  bring 
vou  this  word:  That  he  had  something  to  say 
which  it  greatly  concerned  you  to  hear,  and  that 
tte  prayed  you  to  forgive  his  not  coming  to  revere 
you,  for  it  was  impossible,  and  that  you  should  have 


282  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

the  goodness  to  do  him  this  favor,  to  come  to  find 
him  the  quickest  you  could." 

The  old  woman  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner 
of  her  shawl,  and  her  chin  wobbled  pathetically 
while  she  shot  a  glance  of  baleful  dislike  at  Ferris, 
who  answered  after  a  long  dull  stare  at  her,  "  Tel] 
him  I  '11  come." 

He  did  not  believe  that  Don  Ippolito  could  tell 
him  anything  that  greatly  concerned  him ;  but  he 
was  worn  out  with  going  round  in  the  same  circle 
of  conjecture,  and  so  far  as  he  could  be  glad,  he  was 
glad  of  this  chance  to  face  his  calamity.  He  would 
go,  but  not  at  once ;  he  would  think  it  over ;  he 
would  go  to-morrow,  when  he  had  got  some  grasp 
of  the  matter. 

The  old  woman  lingered. 

"  Tell  him  I  '11  come,"  repeated  Ferris  impa- 
tiently. 

"  A  thousand  excuses ;  but  my  poor  master  has 
been  very  sick.  The  doctors  say  he  will  get  well. 
I  hope  so.  But  he  is  very  weak  indeed ;  a  little 

Bhock,  a  little  disappointment Is  the  signore 

srery,  very  much  occupied  this  morning  ?  He 
greatly  desired,  —  he  prayed  that  if  such  a  thing 
were  possible  in  the  goodness  of  your  excellency 
,  .  .  .  But  I  am  offending  the  signore  I  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  demanded  Ferris. 

The  old  wretch  set  up  a  pitiful  whimper,  and 
tried  to  possess  herself  of  his  hand ;  she  kissed  his 
coat-sleeve  instead.  "  That  you  tvill  return  with 
me,"  she  besought  him. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  233 

"  Oh,  I  '11  go !  "  groaned  the  painter.  "  I  might 
RB  well  go  first  as  last,"  he  added  in  English. 
"  There,  stop  that !  Enough,  enough,  I  tell  you . 
Did  n't  I  say  I  was  going  with  you  ?"  he  cried  to 
the  old  woman. 

"  God  bless  you !  "  she  mumbled,  and  set  off  be- 
fore him  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  door.  She 
looked  so  miserably  old  and  weary  that  he  called  a 
gondola  to  his  landing  and  made  her  get  into  it 
with  him. 

It  tormented  Don  Ippolito's  idle  neighborhood  to 
Bee  Veneranda  arrive  in  such  state,  and  a  passion- 
ate excitement  arose  at  the  caffS,  where  the  person 
of  the  consul  was  known,  when  Ferris  entered  the 
priest's  house  with  her. 

He  had  not  often  visited  Don  Ippolito,  but  the 
quaintness  of  the  place  had  been  so  vividly  im- 
pressed upon  him,  that  he  had  a  certain  familiarity 
with  the  grape-arbor  of  the  anteroom,  the  paintings 
of  the  parlor,  and  the  puerile  arrangement  of  the 
piano  and  melodeon.  Veneranda  led  him  through 
these  rooms  to  the  chamber  where  Don  Ippolito 
had  first  shown  him  his  inventions.  They  were  all 
removed  now,  and  on  a  bed,  set  against  the  wall 
opposite  the  door,  lay  the  priest,  with  his  hands  on 
ii«  breast,  and  a  faint  smile  on  his  lips,  so  peaceful, 
§j  serene,  that  the  painter  stopped  with  a  sudden 
awe,  as  if  he  had  unawares  come  into  the  presence 
rf  death. 

41  Advance,  advance,"  whispered  the  old  woman 


234  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Near  the  head  of  the  bed  sat  a  white-haired 
priest  wearing  the  red  stockings  of  a  canonico ;  hia 
face  was  fanatically  stern ;  but  he  rose,  and  bowed 
courteously  to  Ferris. 

The  stir  of  his  robes  roused  Don  Ippolito.  He 
slowly  and  weakly  turned  his  head,  and  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  painter.  He  made  a  helpless  gesture 
of  salutation  with  his  thin  hand,  and  began  to  ex- 
cuse himself,  for  the  trouble  he  had  given,  with  a 
gentle  politeness  that  touched  the  painter's  heart 
through  all  the  complex  resentments  that  divided 
them.  It  was  indeed  a  strange  ground  on  which 
the  two  men  met.  Ferris  could  not  have  described 
Don  Ippolito  as  his  enemy,  for  the  priest  had  wit- 
tingly done  him  no  wrong  ;  he  could  not  have  logi- 
cally hated  him  as  a  rival,  for  till  it  was  too  late  he 
had  not  confessed  to  his  own  heart  the  love  that 
was  in  it;  he  knew  no  evil  of  Don  Ippolito,  he 
could  not  accuse  him  of  any  betrayal  of  trust,  or 
violation  of  confidence.  He  felt  merely  that  this 
hapless  creature,  lying  so  deathlike  before  him,  had 
profaned,  however  involuntarily,  what  was  sacredest 
in  the  world  to  him ;  beyond  this  all  was  chaos. 
He  had  heard  of  the  priest's  sickness  with  a  fierce 
hardening  of  the  heart ;  yet  as  he  beheld  him  now, 
he  began  to  remember  things  that  moved  him  to  a 
Bort  of  remorse.  He  recalled  again  the  simple  loy- 
alty with  which  Don  Ippolito  had  first  spoken  to 
him  of  Miss  Vervain  and  tried  to  learn  his  own 
feeling  toward  her;  he  thought  how  trustfully  at 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  285 

their  last  meeting  the  priest  had  declared  his  love 
and  hope,  and  how,  when  he  had  coldly  received 
his  confession,  Don  Ippolito  had  solemnly  adjured 
him  to  be  frank  with  him ;  and  Ferris  could  not. 
That  pity  for  himself  as  the  prey  of  fantastically 
cruel  chances,  which  he  had  already  vaguely  felt, 
began  now  also  to  include  the  priest ;  ignoring  all 
but  that  compassion,  he  went  up  to  the  bed  and 
took  the  weak,  chill,  nerveless  hand  in  his  own. 

The  canonico  rose  and  placed  his  chair  for  Ferris 
beside  the  pillow,  on  which  lay  a  brass  crucifix,  and 
then  softly  left  the  room,  exchanging  a  glance  of 
affectionate  intelligence  with  the  sick  man. 

"  I  might  have  waited  a  little  while,"  said  Don 
Ippolito  weakly,  speaking  in  a  hollow  voice  that 
was  the  shadow  of  his  old  deep  tones,  "  but  you 
will  know  how  to  forgive  the  impatience  of  a  man 
not  yet  quite  master  of  himself.  I  thank  you  for 
coming.  I  have  been  very  sick,  as  you  see  ;  I  did 
not  think  to  live ;  I  did  not  care.  ...  I  am  very 
weak,  now ;  let  me  say  to  you  quickly  what  I  want 
to  say.  Dear  friend,"  continued  Don  Ippolito,  fix- 
ing his  eyes  upon  the  painter's  face,  "  I  spoke  to 
her  that  night  after  I  had  parted  from  you." 

The  priest's  voice  was  now  firm;  the  painter 
turned  his  face  away. 

"  I  spoke  without  hope,"  proceeded  Don  Ippo- 
dto,  "  and  because  I  must.  I  spoke  in  vain ;  all 
Was  lost,  all  was  past  in  a  moment." 

The  coil  of  suspicions  and  misgivings  and  fears  in 


286  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

which  Ferris  had  lived  was  suddenly  without  a 
clew ;  he  could  not  look  upon  the  pallid  visage  of 
the  priest  lest  he  should  now  at  last  find  there  that 
Bubtle  expression  of  deceit ;  the  whirl  of  his  thoughts 
kept  him  silent ;  Don  Ippolito  went  on. 

41  Even  if  I  had  never  been  a  priest,  I  would  still 
have  been  impossible  to  her.     She  "  .  .  .  . 

He  stopped  as  if  for  want  of  strength  to  go  on. 
All  at  once  he  cried,  "  Listen !  "  and  he  rapidly  re- 
counted the  story  of  his  life,  ending  with  the  fatal 
tragedy  of  his  love.  When  it  was  told,  he  said 
calmly,  "  But  now  everything  is  over  with  me  on 
earth.  I  thank  the  Infinite  Compassion  for  the 
sorrows  through  which  I  have  passed.  I,  also,  have 
proved  the  miraculous  power  of  the  church,  potent 
to  save  in  all  ages."  He  gathered  the  crucifix  in  hia 
spectral  grasp,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "  Many 
merciful  things  have  befallen  me  on  this  bed  of 
sickness.  My  uncle,  whom  the  long  years  of  my 
darkness  divided  from  me,  is  once  more  at  peace 
with  me.  Even  that  poor  old  woman  whom  I  sent 
to  call  you,  and  who  had  served  me  as  I  believed 
with  hate  for  me  as  a  false  priest  in  her  heart,  has 
devoted  herself  day  and  night  to  my  helplessness ; 
she  has  grown  decrepit  with  her  cares  and  vigils. 
Yes,  I  have  had  many  and  signal  marks  of  the  di« 
vine  pity  to  be  grateful  for.*'  He  paused,  breath- 
lug  quickly,  and  then  added,  u  They  tell  me  that 
the  danger  of  this  sickness  is  past.  But  none  the 
less  I  have  died  in  it.  When  I  rise  from  this  bed 
It  shall  be  to  take  the  vows  of  a  Carmelite  friar." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  237 

Ferris  made  no  answer,  and  Don  Ippolito  re- 
sumed :  — 

"  I  have  told  you  how  when  I  first  owned  to  her 
the  falsehood  in  which  I  lived,  she  besought  me  to 
try  if  I  might  not  find  consolation  in  the  holy  life 
to  which  I  had  been  devoted.  When  you  see  her, 
dear  friend,  will  you  not  tell  her  that  I  came  to  un- 
derstand that  this  comfort,  this  refuge,  awaited  me 
in  the  cell  of  the  Carmelite?  I  have  brought  so 
much  trouble  into  her  life  that  I  would  fain  have 
her  know  I  have  found  peace  where  she  bade  me 
seek  it,  that  I  have  mastered  my  affliction  by  recon- 
ciling myself  to  it.  Tell  her  that  but  for  her  pity 
and  fear  for  me,  I  believe  that  I  must  have  died  in 
my  sins." 

It  was  perhaps  inevitable  from  Ferris's  Protestant 
association  of  monks  and  convents  and  penances 
chiefly  with  the  machinery  of  fiction,  that  all  this 
affected  him  as  unreally  as  talk  in  a  stage-play. 
His  heart  was  cold,  as  he  answered :  "  I  am  glad 
that  your  mind  is  at  rest  concerning  the  doubts 
which  so  long  troubled  you.  Not  all  men  are  so 
easily  pacified ;  but,  as  you  say,  it  is  the  privilege 
of  your  church  to  work  miracles.  As  to  Miss  Ver- 
vain, I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  promise  to  give  her 
your  message.  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  Ex- 
case  me,"  he  continued,  "but  your  servant  said 
there  was  something  you  wished  to  say  that  con- 
cerned me  ?  " 

"  You  will  never  see  her  again  !  "  cried  the  priest, 


288  A  FOBEGC/E  CONCLUSION. 


itruggkng  to  lift  himself  upon  his  elboT*    and  fall 
ing  back  upon  the  pillow.     "  Oh,  bereft  !     Oh^  deal 
and  blind  !     It  was  you  that  she  loved  !     She  con- 
fessed it  to  me  that  night." 

44  Wait  !  "  said  Ferris,  trying  to  steady  his  voice, 
and  failing  ;  "  I  was  with  Mrs.  Vervain  that  night  ; 
she  sent  me  into  the  garden  to  call  her  daughter, 
and  I  saw  how  Miss  Vervain  parted  from  the  man 
she  did  not  love  I  I  saw  "  .  .  .  . 

It  was  a  horrible  thing  to  have  said  it,  he  felt 
now  that  he  had  spoken  ;  a  sense  of  the  indelicacy, 
the  shamefulness,  seemed  to  alienate  him  from  all 
high  concern  in  the  matter,  and  to  leave  him  a  mere 
self-convicted  eavesdropper.  His  face  flamed  ;  the 
wavering  hopes,  the  wavering  doubts  alike  died  in 
his  heart.  He  had  fallen  below  the  dignity  of  his 
own  trouble. 

44  You  saw,  you  saw,"  softly  repeated  the  priest, 
without  looking  at  him,  and  without  any  show  of 
emotion  ;  apparently,  the  convalescence  that  had 
brought  him  perfect  clearness  of  reason  had  left  his 
sensibilities  still  somewhat  dulled.  He  closed  his 
lips  and  lay  silent.  At  last,  he  asked  very  gently, 
4  And  how  shall  I  make  you  believe  that  what 
you  saw  was  not  a  woman's  love,  but  an  angel's 
heavenly  pity  for  me  ?  Does  it  seem  hard  to  be- 
lieve this  of  her  ?  " 

44  Yes,"  answered  the   painter   doggedly,  <4  it  i& 


44  And  yet  it  is  the  very  truth.     Oh,  you  do 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  289 

frncw  her,  you  never  knew  her !  In  the  same 
moment  tkat  she  denied  me  her  love,  she  divined 
the  anguish  of  my  soul,  and  with  that  embrace  she 
sought  to  console  me  for  the  friendlessness  of  a 
whole  life,  past  and  to  come.  But  I  know  that  I 
waste  my  words  on  you,"  he  cried  bitterly.  "  You 
never  would  see  me  as  I  was ;  you  would  find  no 
singleness  in  me,  and  yet  I  had  a  heart  as  full  of 
loyalty  to  you  as  love  for  her.  In  what  have  I 
been  false  to  you  ?  " 

44  You  never  were  false  to  me,"  answered  Ferris, 
"  and  God  knows  I  have  been  true  to  you,  and  at 
what  cost.  We  might  well  curse  the  day  we  met, 
Don  Ippolito,  for  we  have  only  done  each  other 
harm.  But  I  never  meant  you  harm.  And  now  I 
ask  you  to  forgive  me  if  I  cannot  believe  you.  I 
cannot  —  yet.  I  am  of  another  race  from  you,  slow 
to  suspect,  slow  to  trust.  Give  me  a  little  time ; 
let  me  see  you  again.  I  want  to  go  away  and 
think.  I  don't  question  your  truth.  I  'm  afraid 
you  don't  know.  I  'm  afraid  that  the  same  deceit 
has  tricked  us  both.  I  must  come  to  you  to-mor- 
row. Can  I  ?  " 

He  rose  and  stood  beside  the  couch. 

"  Surely,  surely,"  answered  the  priest,  looking 
into  Ferris's  troubled  eyes  with  calm  meekness. 
14  You  will  do  me  the  greatest  pleasure.  Yes,  come 
Igain  to-morrow.  You  know,"  he  said  with  a  sad 
imile,  referring  to  his  purpose  of  taking  vows, 
*that  my  time  in  the  world  is  short.  Adieu,  fcc 
lieet  again  I  " 


240  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

He  took  Ferris's  hand,  hanging  weak  and  hot  by 
his  side,  and  drew  him  gently  down  by  it,  and  kissed 
him  on  either  bearded  cheek.  "  It  is  our  custom, 
you  know,  among  friends.  Farewell." 

The  canonico  in  the  anteroom  bowed  austerely  to 
him  as  he  passed  through ;  the  old  woman  refused 
with  a  harsh  "  Nothing !  "  the  money  he  offered  her 
at  the  door. 

He  bitterly  upbraided  himself  for  the  doubts  he 
could  not  banish,  and  he  still  flushed  with  shame 
that  he  should  have  declared  his  knowledge  of  a 
scene  which  ought,  at  its  worst,  to  have  been  invio- 
lable by  his  speech.  He  scarcely  cared  now  for  the 
woman  about  whom  these  miseries  grouped  them- 
selves ;  he  realized  that  a  fantastic  remorse  may  be 
stronger  than  a  jealous  love. 

He  longed  for  the  morrow  to  come,  that  he  might 
confess  his  shame  and  regret ;  but  a  reaction  to  this 
violent  repentance  came  before  the  night  fell.  As 
the  sound  of  the  priest's  voice  and  the  sight  of  his 
wasted  face  faded  from  the  painter's  sense,  he  began 
to  see  everything  in  the  old  light  again.  Then 
what  Don  Ippolito  had  said  took  a  character  of  lu- 
dicrous, of  insolent  improbability. 

After  dark,  Ferris  set  out  upon  one  of  his  long 
rambling  walks.  He  walked  hard  and  fast,  to  try 
if  he  might  not  still,  by  mere  fatigue  of  body,  the 
anguish  that  filled  his  soul.  But  whichever  way  he 
went  he  came  again  and  again  to  the  house  of  Doir 
(ppolito,  and  at  last  he  stopped  there,  leaning 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  241 

Against  the  parapet  of  the  quay,  and  staring  at  the 
house,  as  though  he  would  spell  from  the  senseless 
stones  the  truth  of  the  secret  they  sheltered.  Far 
up  in  the  chamber,  where  he  knew  that  the  priest 
lay,  the  windows  were  dimly  lit. 

As  he  stood  thus,  with  his  upturned  face  haggard 
in  the  moonlight,  the  soldier  commanding  the  Aus- 
trian patrol  which  passed  that  way  halted  his  squad, 
and  seemed  about  to  ask  him  what  he  wanted 
there. 

Ferris  turned  and  walked  swiftly  homeward ;  but 
he  did  not  even  lie  down.  His  misery  took  the 
shape  of  an  intent  that  would  not  sutfer  him  to  rest. 
He  meant  to  go  to  Don  Ippolito  and  tell  him  that 
his  story  had  failed  of  its  effect,  that  he  was  not  to 
be  fooled  so  easily,  and,  without  demanding  any- 
thing further,  to  leave  him  in  his  lie. 

At  the  earliest  hour  when  he  might  hope  to  be 
admitted,  he  went,  and  rang  the  bell  furiously. 
The  door  opened,  and  he  confronted  the  priest's 
servant.  "  I  want  to  see  Don  Ippolito,"  said  Fer- 
ris abruptly. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  she  began. 

"  I  tell  you  I  must,"  cried  Ferris,  raising  his  voice. 
*  I  tell  you."  .... 

44  Madman  *  "  fiercely  whispered  the  old  woman, 
shaking  both  her  open  hands  in  his  face,  " 
lead    He  died  last  night  I  ' 

16 


xvm. 

THE  terrible  stroke  sobered  Ferris  ,  he  woke  from 
his  long  debauch  of  hate  and  jealousy  and  despair  , 
for  the  first  time  since  that  night  in  the  garden,  he 
faced  his  fate  with  a  clear  mind.  Death  had  set 
his  seal  forever  to  a  testimony  which  he  had  been 
able  neither  to  refuse  nor  to  accept ;  in  abject  sor- 
row and  shame  he  thanked  God  that  he  had  been 
kept  from  dealing  that  last  cruel  blow  ;  but  if  Don 
Ippolito  had  come  back  from  the  dead  to  repeat 
his  witness,  Ferris  felt  that  the  miracle  could  not 
change  his  own  passive  state.  There  was  now  but 
one  thing  in  the  world  for  him  to  do :  to  see  Florida, 
to  confront  her  with  his  knowledge  of  all  that  had 
been,  and  to  abide  by  her  word,  whatever  it  was. 
At  the  worst,  there  was  the  war,  whose  drums  had 
already  called  to  him,  for  a  refuge. 

He  thought  at  first  that  he  might  perhaps  over- 
take the  Vervains  before  they  sailed  for  America, 
but  he  remembered  that  they  had  left  Venice  six 
weeks  before.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  could 
wait,  but  when  he  landed  in  New  York,  he  was  tor- 
mented  in  his  impatience  by  a  strange  reluctance 
and  hesitation.  A  fantastic  light  fell  upon  hif 
plans ;  a  sense  of  its  wildness  enfeebled  his  purpose 
What  was  he  going  to  do?  Had  he  come  foui 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  248 

thousand  miles  to  tell  Florida  that  Don  Ippolito 
was  dead  ?  Or  was  he  going  to  say,  "  I  have 
heard  that  you  love  me,  but  I  don't  believe  it :  is  it 
true  ?  " 

He  pushed  on  to  Providence,  stifling  these  antic 
misgivings  as  he  might,  and  without  allowing  him- 
self time  to  falter  from  his  intent,  he  set  out  to  find 
Mrs.  Vervain's  house.  He  knew  the  street  and  the 
number,  for  she  had  often  given  him  the  address  in 
her  invitations  against  the  time  when  he  should  re- 
turn to  America.  As  he  drew  near  the  house  a 
tender  trepidation  filled  him  and  silenced  all  other 
senses  in  him  ;  his  heart  beat  thickly  ;  the  universe 
included  only  the  fact  that  he  was  to  look  upon  the 
face  he  loved,  and  this  fact  had  neither  past  nor 
future. 

But  a  terrible  foreboding  as  of  death  seized  him 
when  he  stood  before  the  house,  and  glanced  up  at 
its  close-shuttered  front,  and  round  upon  the  dusty 
grass-plots  and  neglected  flower-beds  of  the  door- 
yard.  With  a  cold  hand  he  rang  and  rang  again, 
and  no  answer  came.  At  last  a  man  lounged  up  to 
the  fence  from  the  next  house-door.  "  Guess  you 
won't  make  anybody  hear,"  he  said,  casually. 

"  Does  n't  Mrs.  Vervain  live  in  this  house  ?  " 
WKed  Ferris,  finding  a  husky  voice  in  his  throat 
that  sounded  to  him  like  some  other's  voice  lost 
there. 

**  She  used  to,  but  she  is  n't  at  hrme.  Family  s 
to  Europe." 


244  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

They  had  not  come  back  yet. 

M  Thanks,"  said  Ferris  mechanically,  and  he  wen! 
away.  He  laughed  to  himself  at  this  keen  irony  of 
fortune  ;  he  was  prepared  for  the  confirmation  of  his 
doubts  ;  he  was  ready  for  relief  from  them,  Heaven 
knew;  but  this  blank  that  the  turn  of  the  wheel 
had  brought,  this  Nothing ! 

The  Vervains  were  as  lost  to  him  as  if  Europe 
were  in  another  planet.  How  should  he  find  them 
there  ?  Besides,  he  was  poor  ;  he  had  no  money  to 
get  back  with,  if  he  had  wanted  to  return. 

He  took  the  first  train  to  New  York,  and  hunted 
up  a  young  fellow  of  his  acquaintance,  who  in  the 
days  of  peace  had  been  one  of  the  governor's  aides. 
He  was  still  holding  this  place,  and  was  an  ardent 
recruiter.  He  hailed  with  rapture  the  expression  of 
Ferris's  wish  to  go  into  the  war.  "  Look  here !  " 
he  said  after  a  moment's  thought,  "didn't  you. 
have  some  rank  as  a  consul  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Ferris  with  a  dreary  smile,  "  I 
have  been  equivalent  to  a  commander  in  the  navy 
and  a  colonel  in  the  army  —  I  don't  mean  both,  but 
either." 

"  Good  !  "   cried  his  friend.     "  We   must  strike 
high.     The  colonelcies  are  rather  inaccessible,  just 
at  present,  and   so  are  the  lieutenant-colonelcies 
but  a  majorship,  now"  .... 

«  Oh  no ;  don't !  "  pleaded  Ferris.  «  Make  m« 
A  corporal  —  or  a  cook.  I  shall  not  be  so  mischiev. 
ous  to  our  own  side,  then,  and  when  the  other  fel 
lows  shoot  me,  I  shall  not  be  so  much  of  a  loss." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  24d 

"  Oh,  they  won't  shoot  you,"  expostulated  hia 
friend,  high-heartedly.  He  got  Ferris  a  commission 
as  second  lieutenant,  and  lent  him  money  to  buy  a 
uniform. 

Ferris's  regiment  was  sent  to  a  part  of  the  south- 
west, where  he  saw  a  good  deal  of  fighting  and 
fever  and  ague.  At  the  end  of  two  years,  spent  al- 
ternately in  the  field  and  the  hospital,  he  was  riding 
out  near  the  camp  one  morning  in  unusual  spirits, 
when  two  men  in  butternut  fired  at  him  :  one  had 
the  mortification  to  miss  him ;  the  bullet  of  the 
other  struck  him  in  the  arm.  There  was  talk  of 
amputation  at  first,  but  the  case  was  finally  man- 
aged without.  In  Ferris's  state  of  health  it  was 
quite  the  same  an  end  of  his  soldiering. 

He  came  North  sick  and  maimed  and  poor.  He 
smiled  now  to  think  of  confronting  Florida  in  any 
imperative  or  challenging  spirit ;  but  the  current  of 
his  hopeless  melancholy  turned  more  and  more 
towards  her.  He  had  once,  at  a  desperate  venture, 
written  to  her  at  Providence,  but  he  had  got  no  an- 
swer. He  asked  of  a  Providence  man  among  the 
artists  in  New  York,  if  he  knew  the  Vervains  ;  the 
Providence  man  said  that  he  did  know  them  a  little 
when  he  was  much  younger ;  they  had  been  abroad 
a  great  deal ;  he  believed  in  a  dim  way  that  they 
trere  still  in  Europe.  The  young  one,  he  added 
to  have  a  temper  of  her  own. 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Ferris  stiffly. 


£46  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

The  one  fast  friend  whom  he  found  in  New  York 
tfas  the  governor's  dashing  aide.  The  enthusiasm 
of  this  recruiter  of  regiments  had  not  ceased  with 
Ferris's  departure  for  the  front ;  the  number  of  dis- 
abled officers  forbade  him  to  lionize  any  one  of 
them,  but  he  befriended  Ferris  ;  he  made  a  feint  of 
discovering  the  open  secret  of  his  poverty,  and 
asked  how  he  could  help  him. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ferris,  "  it  looks  like  a 
hopeless  case,  to  me." 

"  Oh  no  it  is  n't,"  retorted  his  friend,  as  cheer- 
fully and  confidently  as  he  had  promised  him  that 
he  should  not  be  shot.  "Didn't  you  bring  back 
any  pictures  from  Venice  with  you  ?  " 

"I  brought  back  a  lot  of  sketches  and  studies. 
I  'm  sorry  to  say  that  I  loafed  a  good  deal  there ; 
I  used  to  feel  that  I  had  eternity  before  me  ;  and  I 
was  a  theorist  and  a  purist  and  an  idiot  generally. 
There  are  none  of  them  fit  to  be  seen." 

*'  Never  mind  ;  let 's  look  at  them." 

They  hunted  out  Ferris's  property  from  a  catch- 
all  closet  in  the  studio  of  a  sculptor  with  whom  he 
had  left  them,  and  who  expressed  a  polite  pleasure 
in  handing  them  over  to  Ferris  rather  than  to  hia 
aeirs  and  assigns. 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  share  your  satisfac- 
tion, old  fellow,"  said  the  painter  ruefully ;  but  he 
inpacked  the  sketches. 

Their  inspection  certainly  revealed  a  dishearten 
mg  condition  of  half-work.     "  And  I  can't  do  any 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  247 

thing  to  help  the  matter  for  the  present,"  groaned 
'  Ferris,  stopping  midway  in  the  business,  and  mak- 
ing as  if  to  shut  the  case  again. 

"Hold  on,"  said  his  friend.  "What's  this? 
Why,  this  is  n't  so  bad."  It  was  the  studj  of  Don 
Ippolito  as  a  Venetian  priest,  which  Ferris  beheld 
with  a  stupid  amaze,  remembering  that  he  had 
meant  to  destroy  it,  and  wondering  how  it  had  got 
where  it  was,  but  not  really  caring  much.  "  It 's 
worse  than  you  can  imagine,"  said  he,  still  looking 
at  it  with  this  apathy. 

"  No  matter ;  I  want  you  to  sell  it  to  me. 
Come ! " 

"I  can't !  "  replied  Ferris  piteously.  " It  would 
be  flat  burglary." 

"  Then  put  it  into  the  exhibition." 

The  sculptor,  who  had  gone  back  to  scraping  the 
chin  of  the  famous  public  man  on  whose  bust  he 
was  at  work,  stabbed  him  to  the  heart  with  his 
modeling-tool,  and  turned  to  Ferris  and  his  friend. 
He  slanted  his  broad  red  beard  for  a  sidelong  look 
at  the  picture,  and  said :  "  I  know  what  you  mean, 
Ferris.  It 's  hard,  and  it 's  feeble  in  some  ways . 
and  it  looks  a  little  too  much  like  experimenting. 
But  it  is  n't  so  infernally  bad." 

"  Don't  be  fulsome,"  responded  Ferris,  jadedly. 
He  was  thinking  in  a  thoroughly  vanquished  mood 
what  a  tragico-comic  end  of  the  whole  business  it 
was  that  poor  Don  Ippolito  should  come  to  hii 
in  this  fashion,  and  as  it  were  offer  to  succor 


248  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

him  in  his  extremity.  He  perceived  the  shameftL. 
ness  of  suffering  such  help ;  it  would  be  much  bettor 
to  starve ;  but  he  felt  cowed,  and  he  had  not  cour- 
age to  take  arms  against  this  sarcastic  destiny, 
which  had  pursued  him  with  a  mocking  smile  from 
one  lower  level  to  another.  He  rubbed  his  fore- 
head and  brooded  upon  the  picture.  At  least  it 
would  be  some  comfort  to  be  rid  of  it ;  and  Don 
Ippolito  was  dead;  and  to  whom  could  it  mean 
more  than  the  face  of  it  ? 

His  friend  had  his  way  about  framing  it,  and  it 
was  got  into  the  exhibition.  The  hanging-com- 
mittee offered  it  the  hospitalities  of  an  obscure  cor- 
ner ;  but  it  was  there,  and  it  stood  its  chance.  No- 
body seemed  to  know  that  it  was  there,  however, 
unless  confronted  with  it  by  Ferris's  friend,  and 
then  no  one  seemed  to  care  for  it,  much  less  want 
to  buy  it.  Ferris  saw  so  many  much  worse  pic- 
tures sold  all  around  it,  that  he  began  gloomily  to 
respect  it.  At  first  it  had  shocked  him  to  see  it  on 
the  Academy's  wall ;  but  it  soon  came  to  have  no 
other  relation  to  him  than  that  of  creatureship,  like 
t,  poem  in  which  a  poet  celebrates  his  love  or  la- 
ments his  dead,  and  sells  for  a  price.  His  pride  aa 
well  as  his  poverty  was  set  on  having  the  picture 
sold ;  he  had  nothing  to  do,  and  he  used  to  lurk 
about,  and  see  if  it  would  not  interest  somebody  at 
last.  But  it  remained  unsold  throughout  May,  and 
well  into  June,  long  after  the  crowds  had  ceased  tq 
frequent  the  exhibition,  and  only  chance  visitors 
from  the  country  straggled  in  by  twos  and  threes. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  219 

One  warm,  dusty  afternoon,  when  he  turned  into 
fche  Academy  out  of  Fourth  Avenue,  the  empty  hall 
echoed  to  no  footfall  but  his  own.  A  group  of 
weary  women,  who  wore  that  look  of  wanting  lunch 
which  characterizes  all  picture-gallery-goers  at  home 
and  abroad,  stood  faint  before  a  certain  large  Ve- 
netian subject  which  Ferris  abhorred,  and  the  very 
name  of  which  he  spat  out  of  his  mouth  with  loath- 
ing for  its  unreality.  He  passed  them  with  a  som- 
bre glance,  as  he  took  his  way  toward  the  retired 
spot  where  his  own  painting  hung. 

A  lady  whose  crapes  would  have  betrayed  to  her 
own  sex  the  latest  touch  of  Paris  stood  a  little  way 
back  from  it,  and  gazed  fixedly  at  it.  The  pose  of 
ner  head,  her  whole  attitude,  expressed  a  quiet  de- 
jection ;  without  seeing  her  face  one  could  know  its 
air  of  pensive  wistfulness.  Ferris  resolved  to  in- 
dulge himself  in  a  near  approach  to  this  unwonted 
spectacle  of  interest  in  his  picture  ;  at  the  sound  of 
his  steps  the  lady  slowly  turned  a  face  of  somewhat 
heavily  molded  beauty,  and  from  low-growing,  thick 
pale  hair  and  level  brows,  stared  at  him  with  the 
sad  eyes  of  Florida  Vervain.  She  looked  fully  the 
last  two  years  older. 

As  though  she  were  listening  to  the  sound  of  hia 
steps  in  the  dark  instead  of  having  him  there  visi- 
oly  before  her,  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a 
Iieamy  unrecognition. 

"  Yos,  it  is  I,"  said  Ferris,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

She  recovered  herself,  and  with  a  subdued,  soi 


£50  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

rowful  quiet  in  her  old  directness,  she  answur-ed* 
"  I  supposed  you  must  be  in  New  York,"  and  sh« 
indicated  that  she  had  supposed  so  from  seeing  this 
picture. 

Ferris  felt  the  blood  mounting  to  his  head.  "  Do 
rou  think  it  is  like  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it  is  n't  just  to  him ;  it  attrib- 
utes things  that  did  n't  belong  to  him,  and  it  leaves 
out  a  great  deal." 

"  I  could  scarcely  have  hoped  to  please  you  in  a 
portrait  of  Don  Ippolito."  Ferris  saw  the  red  light 
break  out  as  it  used  on  the  girl's  pale  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  dilate  angrily.  He  went  on  recklessly  : 
"  He  sent  for  me  after  you  went  away,  and  gave 
me  a  message  for  you.  I  never  promised  to  deliver 
it,  but  I  will  do  so  now.  He  asked  me  to  tell  you 
when  we  met,  that  he  had  acted  on  your  desire,  and 
had  tried  to  reconcile  himself  to  his  calling  and  his 
religion ;  he  was  going  to  enter  a  Carmelite  con- 
vent." 

Florida  made  no  answer,  but  she  seemed  to  ex 
pect  him  to  go  on,  and  he  was  constrained  to  do  no. 

"  He  never  carried  out  his  purpose,"  Ferris  said, 
with  a  keen  glance  at  her ;  "he  died  the  night 
after  I  saw  him." 

"  Died  ?  "  The  fan  and  the  parasol  and  the  two 
«  three  light  packages  she  had  been  holding  slid 
down  one  by  one,  and  lay  at  her  feet.  "  Thank 
you  for  bringing  me  his  last  words,"  she  said,  buf 
lid  not  ask  him  anything  more. 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  251 

Ferris  did  not  offer  to  gather  up  her  tilings ;  he 
itood  irresolute  ;  presently  he  continued  with  a 
downcast  look :  "  He  had  had  a  fever,  but  they 
thought  he  was  getting  well.  His  death  must  have 
been  sudden."  He  stopped,  and  resumed  fiercely, 
resolved  to  have  the  worst  out :  "  I  went  to  him, 
with  no  good-will  toward  him,  the  next  day  after 
I  saw  him ;  but  I  came  too  late.  That  was  God's 
mercy  to  me.  I  hope  you  have  your  consolation, 
Miss  Vervain." 

It  maddened  him  to  see  her  so  little  moved,  and 
he  meant  to  make  her  share  his  remorse. 

"  Did  he  blame  me  for  anything  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No ! "  said  Ferris,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  he 
praised  you." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  returned  Florida,  "  for  I 
have  thought  it  all  over  many  times,  and  I  know 
that  I  was  not  to  blame,  though  at  first  I  blamed 
myself.  I  never  intended  him  anything  but  good< 
That  is  my  consolation,  Mr.  Ferris.  But  you,"  she 
added,  "you  seem  to  make  yourself  my  judge. 
Well,  and  what  do  you  blame  me  for  ?  I  have  a 
right  to  know  what  is  in  your  mind." 

The  thing  that  was  in  his  mind  had  rankled 
there  for  two  years;  in  many  a  black  reverie  of 
those  that  alternated  with  his  moods  of  abject 
self-reproach  and  perfect  trust  of  her,  he  had  con- 
fronted her  and  flung  it  out  upon  her  in  one  sting- 
'ng  phrase.  But  he  was  now  suddenly  at  a  loss 
the  words  would  not  come ;  his  torment  fell  dumb 


262  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

before  her  ;  in  her  presence  the  cause  was  unspeak-* 
able.  Her  lips  had  quivered  a  little  in  making  thai 
demand,  and  there  had  been  a  corresponding  break 
in  her  voice. 

"  Florida !  Florida  !  "  Ferris  heard  himself  say- 
ing, "  I  loved  you  all  the  time  I  " 

"  Oh  indeed,  did  you  love  me  ?  "  she  cried,  in- 
dignantly, while  the  tears  shone  in  her  eyes.  "  And 
was  that  why  you  left  a  helpless  young  girl  to 
meet  that  trouble  alone  ?  Was  that  why  you  re- 
fused me  your  advice,  and  turned  your  back  on  me, 
and  snubbed  me?  Oh,  many  thanks  for  your 
love ! "  She  dashed  the  gathered  tears  angrily 
away,  and  went  on.  "  Perhaps  you  knew,  too, 
what  that  poor  priest  was  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Ferris,  stolidly,  "  I  did  at  last :  he 
told  me." 

"  Oh,  then  you  acted  generously  and  nobly  to  let 
him  go  on!  It  was  kind  to  him,  and  very,  very 
kind  to  me  !  " 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  "  demanded  Ferris,  amazed 
and  furious  to  find  himself  on  the  defensive.  "  His 
telling  me  put  it  out  of  my  power  to  act." 

"  I  'm  glad  that  you  can  satisfy  yourself  with 
inch  a  quibble !  But  I  wonder  that  you  can  tell 
me  —  any  woman  of  it !  " 

"By  Heavens,  this  is  atrocious!"  cried  Ferris. 
u  Do  you  think  ....  Look  here  !  "  he  went  on 
rudely.  "  I  '11  put  the  case  to  you,  and  you  shaL 
lodge  it.  Remember  that  I  was  such  a  fo/l  as  t« 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  258 

be  in  love  with  you.  Suppose  Don  Ippolito  had 
told  me  that  he  was  going  to  risk  everything  —  go- 
ing to  give  up  home,  religion,  friends  —  on  the  ten 
thousandth  part  of  a  chance  that  you  might  some 
day  care  for  him.  I  did  not  believe  he  had  even  so 
much  chance  as  that ;  but  he  had  always  thought 
me  his  friend,  and  he  trusted  me.  Was  it  a  quibble 
that  kept  me  from  betraying  him  ?  I  don't  know 
what  honor  is  among  women ;  but  no  man  could 
have  done  it.  I  confess  to  my  shame  that  I  went 
to  your  house  that  night  longing  to  betray  him. 
And  then  suppose  your  mother  sent  me  into  th« 
garden  to  call  you,  and  I  saw  .  .  .  what  has  made 
my  life  a  hell  of  doubt  for  the  last  two  years  ;  what 
.  .  .  No,  excuse  me !  I  can't  put  the  case  to  you 
after  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Florida.  "  I  don't 
understand  you  I" 

"What  do  I  mean?  You  don't  understand7 
Are  you  so  blind  as  that,  or  are  you  making  a  fool 
of  me?  What  could  I  think  but  that  you  had 
played  with  that  priest's  heart  till  your  own  ".  .  .  . 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Florida  with  a  shudder,  starting 
away  from  him,  "  did  you  think  I  was  such  a  wicked 
girl  as  that  ?  " 

It  was  no  defense,  no  explanation,  no  denial ;  it 
simply  left  the  case  with  Ferris  as  before.  He 
stood  looking  like  a  man  who  does  not  know 
whether  to  bless  or  curse  himself,  to  laugh  or  blas- 
pheme. 


254  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

She  stooped  and  tried  to  pick  up  the  things  she 
had  let  fall  upon  the  floor  ;  but  she  seemed  not  able 
to  find  them.  He  bent  over,  and,  gathering  them 
together,  returned  them  to  her  with  his  left  hand 
keeping  the  other  in  the  breast  of  his  coat. 

"  Thanks,"  she  said  ;  and  then  after  a  moment, 
"  Have  you  been  hurt  ?  "  she  asked  timidly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ferris  in  a  sulky  way.  "  I  have  had 
my  share."  He  glanced  down  at  his  arm  askance. 
"  It  's  rather  conventional,"  he  added.  "  It  is  n't 
much  of  a  hurt ;  but  then,  I  was  n't  much  of  a 
soldier. 

The  girl's  eyes  looked  reverently  at  the  conven- 
tional arm ;  those  were  the  days,  so  long  past,  when 
women  worshipped  men  for  such  things.  But  she 
said  nothing,  and  as  Ferris's  eyes  wandered  to  her, 
he  received  a  novel  and  painful  impression.  He 
said,  hesitatingly,  "  I  have  not  asked  before :  but 
your  mother,  Miss  Vervain  —  I  hope  she  is  well  ?  " 

"  She  is  dead,"  answered  Florida,  with  stony 
quiet. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time.  Then  Ferris 
said,  "  I  had  a  great  affection  for  your  mother." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "  she  was  fond  of  you,  too. 
But  you  never  wrote  or  sent  her  any  word  ;  it  used 
Vo  grieve  her." 

Her  unjust  reproach  went  to  his  heart,  so  long 
preoccupied  with  its  own  troubles  ;  he  recalled  with 
ft  tender  remorse  the  old  Venetian  days  and  th« 
kindliness  of  the  gracious,  silly  woman  who  had 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  265 

teemed  to  like  him  so  much ;  he  remembered  the 
charm  of  her  perfect  ladylikeness,  and  of  her  win- 
ning, weak-headed  desire  to  make  every  one  happy 
to  whom  she  spoke  ;  the  beauty  of  the  good-will, 
the  hospitable  soul  that  in  an  imaginably  better 
world  than  this  will  outvalue  a  merely  intellectual 
or  aesthetic  life.  He  humbled  himself  before  hei 
memory,  and  as  keenly  reproached  himself  as  if  he 
could  have  made  her  hear  from  him  at  any  time 
during  the  past  two  years.  He  could  only  say,  "  I 
am  sorry  that  I  gave  your  mother  pain  ;  I  loved  her 
very  truly.  I  hope  that  she  did  not  suffer  much 
before"— 

"  No,"  said  Florida,  "  it  was  a  peaceful  end  ;  but 
finally  it  was  very  sudden.  She  had  not  been  well 
for  many  years,  with  that  sort  of  decline ;  I  used 
sometimes  to  feel  troubled  about  her  before  we  came 
to  Venice  ;  but  I  was  very  young.  I  never  was 
really  alarmed  till  that  day  I  went  to  you." 

44 1  remember,"  said  Ferris  contritely. 

44  She  had  fainted,  and  I  thought  we  ought  to  see 
a  doctor  5  but  afterwards,  because  I  thought  that  I 
ought  not  to  do  so  without  speaking  to  her,  I  did 
not  go  to  the  doctor ;  and  that  day  we  made  up 
our  minds  to  get  home  as  soon  as  we  could ;  and 
Bhe  seemed  so  mucn  better,  for  a  while ;  and  then, 
everything  seemed  to  happen  at  once.  When  we 
did  start  home,  she  coi\Ad  not  go  any  farther  than 
Switzerland,  and  in  the  fall  we  went  back  to  Italy, 
We  went  to  Sorrento,  where  the  climate  seemed  t# 


256  A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION. 

do  her  good.  But  she  was  growing  frailer,  the 
whole  time.  She  died  in  March.  I  found  some 
old  friends  of  hers  in  Naples,  and  came  home  with 
them." 

The  girl  hesitated  a  little  over  the  words,  which 
she  nevertheless  uttered  unbroken,  while  the  tears 
fell  quietly  down  her  face.  She  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  the  angry  words  that  had  passed  be- 
tween her  and  Ferris,  to  remember  him  only  as  one 
who  had  known  her  mother,  while  she  went  on  to 
relate  some  little  facts  in  the  history  of  her  mother's 
last  days ;  and  she  rose  into  a  higher,  serener  at- 
mosphere, inaccessible  to  his  resentment  or  his  re- 
gret, as  she  spoke  of  her  loss.  The  simple  tale  of 
sickness  and  death  inexpressibly  belittled  his  pas- 
sionate woes,  and  made  them  look  theatrical  to  him. 
He  hung  his  head  as  they  turned  at  her  motion 
and  walked  away  from  the  picture  of  Don  Ippolito, 
and  down  the  stairs  toward  the  street-door;  the 
people  before  the  other  Venetian  picture  had  ap- 
parently yielded  to  their  craving  for  lunch,  and  had 
vanished. 

"  I  have  very  little  to  tell  you  of  my  own  life," 
Ferris  began  awkwardly.  "  I  came  home  soon  after 
you  started,  and  I  went  to  Providence  to  find  you, 
but  you  had  not  got  back." 

Florida  stopped  him  and  looked  perplexedly  into 
tus  face,  and  then  moved  on. 

44  Then  I  went  into  the  army.  I  wrote  once  i* 
fan." 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  267 

"  I  never  got  your  letter,"  she  said. 

They  were  now  in  the  lower  hall,  and  near  the 
door. 

"  Florida,"  said  Ferris,  abruptly,  "  I  'm  poor  and 
disabled  ;  I  've  no  more  right  than  any  sick  beggar 
in  the  street  to  say  it  to  you ;  but  I  loved  you,  I 
must  always  love  you.  I —  Good-by  !  " 

She  halted  him  again,  and  "  You  said,"  she 
grieved,  "  that  you  doubted  me ;  you  said  that  I 
had  made  your  life  a  "  — 

"  Yes,   I  said  that ;  I  know  it,"  answered  Fer 
ris. 

"  You  thought  I  could  be  such  a  false  and  cruel 
girl  as  that  I " 

"  Yes,  yes  :  I  thought  it  all,  God  help  me  I  " 

"  When  I  was  only  sorry  for  him,  when  it  was 
you  that  I  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  know  it,"  answered  Ferris  in  a  heartsick, 
hopeless  voice.  "  He  knew  it,  too.  He  told  me  so 
the  day  before  he  died." 

"  And  did  n't  you  believe  him  ?  " 

Ferris  could  not  answer. 

"  Do  you  believe  him  now  ?  " 

"  I  believe  anything  you  tell  me.  When  I  look 
It  you,  I  can't  believe  I  ever  doubted  you." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  because  —  I  love  you." 

«  Oh  1  That 's  no  reason." 

"I  know  it;  but  I'm  used  to  being  without  m 
reason," 


£58  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

Florida  looked  gravely  at  his  penitent  face,  and  a 
brave  red  color  mantled  her  own,  while  she  ad- 
vanced an  unanswerable  argument :  "  Then  what 
are  you  going  away  for  ?  ' 

The  world  seemed  to  melt  and  float  away  from 
between  them.  It  returned  and  solidified  at  the 
sound  of  the  janitor's  steps  as  he  came  towards 
them  on  his  round  through  the  empty  building. 
Ferris  caught  her  hand ;  she  leaned  heavily  upon 
his  arm  as  they  walked  out  into  the  street.  It  was 
all  they  could  do  at  the  moment  except  to  look  into 
each  other's  faces,  and  walk  swiftly  on. 

At  last,  after  how  long  a  time  he  did  not  know, 
Ferris  cried :  "  Where  are  we  going,  Florida  ?  " 

"Why,  I  don't  know!"  she  replied.  "I'm 
stopping  with  those  friends  of  ours  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel.  We  were  going  on  to  Providence 
to-morrow.  We  landed  yesterday  ;  and  we  stayed 
to  do  some  shopping  "  — 

"  And  may  I  ask  why  you  happened  to  give  your 
first  moments  in  America  to  the  fine  arts  ?  " 

"  The  fine  arts  ?  Oh  !  I  thought  I  might  fad 
something  of  yours,  there  !  " 

At  the  hotel  she  presented  him  to  her  party  as  a 
iriend  whom  her  mother  and  she  had  known  in 
Italy ;  and  then  went  to  lay  aside  her  hat.  The 
Providence  people  received  him  with  the  easy,  half- 
southern  warmth  of  manner  which  seems  to  have 
floated  northward  as  far  as  their  city  on  the  Guli 
Stream  bathing  the  Rhode  Island  shores.  Tb* 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  259 

matron  of  the  party  had,  before  Florida  came  back, 
an  outline  history  of  their  acquaintance,  which  she 
evolved  from  him  with  so  much  tact  that  he  was 
not  conscious  of  parting  with  information  ;  and  she 
divined  indefinitely  more  when  she  saw  them  to- 
gether again.  She  was  charming ;  but  to  Ferris'i 
thinking  she  had  a  fault,  she  kept  him  too  much 
from  Florida,  though  she  talked  of  nothing  else, 
and  at  the  last  she  was  discreetly  merciful. 

"  Do  you  think,"  whispered  Florida,  very  close 
against  his  face,  when  they  parted,  ".  that  I  '11  have 
a  bad  temper  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  will  —  or  I  shall  be  killed  with 
kindness,"  he  replied. 

She  stood  a  moment,  nervously  buttoning  hig 
coat  across  his  breast.  "  You  must  n't  let  that  pic- 
ture be  sold,  Henry,"  she  said,  and  by  this  touch 
alone  did  she  express  any  sense,  if  she  had  it,  of  his 
want  of  feeling  in  proposing  to  sell  it.  He  winced, 
and  she  added  with  a  soft  pity  in  her  voice,  "  He 
did  bring  us  together,  after  all.  I  wish  you  had 
believed  him,  dear !  " 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Ferris,  most  humbly. 

People  are  never  equal  to  the  romance  of  their 
youth  in  after  life,  except  by  fits,  and  Ferris  espe- 
cially could  not  keep  himself  at  what  he  called  the 
operatic  pitch  of  their  brief  betrothal  and  the  eaily 
Aays  of  their  marriage.  With  his  help,  or  even  his 
•ncouragement,  his  wife  might  have  been  able  to 


260  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

maintain  it.  She  had  a  gift  for  idealizing  him,  at 
least,  and  aia  his  hurt  healed  but  slowly,  and  it 
was  a  good  while  before  he  could  paint  with  hia 
WDunded  arm,  it  was  an  easy  matter  for  her  to  be- 
lieve in  the  meanwhile  that  he  would  have  been 
the  greatest  painter  of  his  time,  but  for  his  honor- 
able disability ;  to  hear  her,  you  would  suppose  no 
one  else  had  ever  been  shot  in  the  service  of  his 
country. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Ferris,  since  he  could  not 
work,  that  she  had  money ;  in  exalted  moments  he 
had  thought  this  a  barrier  to  their  marriage ;  yet 
he  could  not  recall  any  one  who  had  refused  the 
hand  of  a  beautiful  girl  because  of  the  accident  of 
her  wealth,  and  in  the  end  he  silenced  his  scruples. 
It  might  be  said  that  in  many  other  ways  he  was 
not  her  equal ;  but  one  ought  to  reflect  how  very 
few  men  are  worthy  of  their  wives  in  any  sense. 
After  his  fashion  he  certainly  loved  her  always,  — 
even  when  she  tried  him  most,  for  it  must  be  owned 
that  she  really  had  that  hot  temper  which  he  had 
dreaded  in  her  from  the  first.  Not  that  her  impe- 
riousness  directly  affected  him.  For  a  long  time 
after  their  marriage,  she  seemed  to  have  no  other 
desire  than  to  lose  her  outwearied  will  in  his. 
There  was  something  a  little  pathetic  in  this  ;  there 
was  a  kind  of  bewilderment  in  her  gentleness,  as 
though  the  relaxed  tension  of  her  long  self-devotion 
fco  her  mother  left  her  without  a  full  motive ;  she 
Apparently  found  it  impossible  to  give  herself  witk 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  261 

a  satisfactory  degree  of  abandon  to  a  man  who 
could  do  so  many  things  for  himself.  When  her 
children  came  they  filled  this  vacancy,  and  afforded 
her  scope  for  the  greatest  excesses  of  self-devotion. 
Ferris  laughed  to  find  her  protecting  them  and 
nerving  them  with  the  same  tigerish  tenderness,  the 
same  haughty  humility,  as  that  with  which  she 
used  to  care  for  poor  Mrs.  Vervain;  and  he  per- 
ceived that  this  was  merely  the  direction  away  from 
herself  of  that  intense  arrogance  of  nature  which, 
but  for  her  power  and  need  of  loving,  would  have 
made  her  intolerable.  What  she  chiefly  exacted 
from  them  in  return  for  her  fierce  devotedness  was 
the  truth  in  everything ;  she  was  content  that  they 
should  be  rather  less  fond  of  her  than  of  their  father, 
whom  indeed  they  found  much  more  amusing. 

The  Ferrises  went  to  Europe  some  years  after 
their  marriage,  revisiting  Venice,  but  sojourning 
for  the  most  part  in  Florence.  Ferris  had  once 
imagined  that  the  tragedy  which  had  given  him  his 
wife  would  always  invest  her  with  the  shadow  of  its 
sadness,  but  in  this  he  was  mistaken.  There  is 
nothing  has  really  so  strong  a  digestion  as  love,  and 
this  is  very  lucky,  seeing  what  manifold  experiences 
.  ove  has  to  swallow  and  assimilate  ;  and  when  they 
got  back  to  Venice,  Ferris  found  that  the  customs 
of  their  joint  life  exorcised  all  the  dark  associations 
of  the  place.  These  simply  formed  a  sombre  back- 
ground, against  which  their  wedded  happiness  re- 
lieved itself.  They  talked  much  of  the  past,  with 


262  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION 

free  minds,  unashamed  and  unafraid.  If  it  is  a  li 
ihocking,  it  is  nevertheless  true,  and  true  to  human 
nature,  that  they  spoke  of  Don  Ippolito  as  if  he  were 
a  part  of  their  love. 

Ferris  had  never  ceased  to  wonder  at  what  he 
called  the  unfathomable  innocence  of  his  wife,  and 
he  liked  to  go  over  all  the  points  of  their  former  life 
in  Venice,  and  bring  home  to  himself  the  utter  sim- 
plicity of  her  girlish  ideas,  motives,  and  designs, 
which  both  confounded  and  delighted  him. 

"  It  's  amazing,  Florida,"  he  would  say,  "  it  *s 
perfectly  amazing  that  you  should  have  been  will- 
ing to  undertake  the  job  of  importing  into  America 
that  poor  fellow  with  his  whole  stock  of  helpless- 
ness, dreamery,  and  unpractically.  What  were 
you  about  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  've  often  told  you,  Henry.  I  thought 
he  ought  n't  to  continue  a  priest." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know."  Then  he  would  remain 
lost  in  thought,  softly  whistling  to  himself.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  he  asked,  "  Do  you  think  he 
was  really  very  much  troubled  by  his  false  posi- 
tion?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  now.     He  seemed  to  be  so." 

"  That  story  he  told  you  of  his  childhood  and  of 
how  he  became  a  priest ;  did  n't  it  strike  yc  a  at 
the  time  like  ratner  a  made-up,  melodramatic  his- 
lory?" 

44  No,  no  !  How  can  y<  *  say  such  th't*gs,  Henry 
[t  was  too  simple  not  to  )     tiue." 


A  FOREGONE   CONCLUSION.  268 

M  Well,  well.  Perhaps  so.  But  he  haffles  me. 
He  always  did,  for  that  matter." 

Then  came  another  pause,  while  Ferris  lay  back 
upon  the  gondola  cushions,  getting  the  level  of  tho 
Lido  just  under  his  hat-brim. 

"  Do  you  think  he  was  very  much  of  a  skeptic, 
after  all,  Florida  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ferris  turned  her  eyes  reproachfully  upon 
her  husband.  "  Why,  Henry,  how  strange  you 
are!  You  said  yourself,  once,  that  you  used  to 
wonder  if  he  were  not  a  skeptic." 

"  Yes ;  I  know.  But  for  a  man  who  had  lived 
in  doubt  so  many  years,  he  certainly  slipped  back 
into  the  bosom  of  mother  church  pretty  suddenly. 
Don't  you  think  he  was  a  person  of  rather  light 
feelings  ?  " 

"  I  can't  talk  with  you,  my  dear,  if  you  go  on  in 
that  way." 

"I  don't  mean  any  harm.  I  can  see  how  in 
many  things  he  was  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor. 
But  it  seems  to  me  that  even  the  life  he  lived  was 
largely  imagined.  I  mean  that  he  was  such  a 
dreamer  that  once  having  fancied  himself  afflicted 
txt  being  what  he  was,  he  could  go  on  and  suffer 
as  keenly  as  if  he  really  were  troubled  by  it.  Why 
might  n't  it  be  that  all  his  doubts  came  from  anger 
and  resentment  towards  those  who  made  him  a 
priest,  rather  than  from  any  examination  of  his  own 
Jiind  ?  I  don't  say  it  was  so.  But  I  don't  believe 
ft*  knew  quite  what  he  wanted.  He  must  hart 


264  A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION. 

felt  that  his  failure  as  an  inventor  went  deeper  than 
the  failure  of  his  particular  attempts.  I  onc« 
thought  that  perhaps  he  had  a  genius  in  that  way, 
but  I  question  now  whether  he  had.  If  he  had,  it 
seems  to  me  he  had  opportunity  to  prove  it  —  cer- 
tainly, as  a  priest  he  had  leisure  to  prove  it.  But 
when  that  sort  of  sub-consciousness  of  his  own  in- 
adequacy came  over  him,  it  was  perfectly  natural 
for  him  to  take  refuge  in  the  supposition  that  he 
had  been  baffled  by  circumstances." 

Mrs.  Ferris  remained  silently  troubled.  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  answer  you,  Henry  ;  but  I  think  that 
you  're  judging  him  narrowly  and  harshly." 

"  Not  harshly.  I  feel  very  compassionate  to- 
wards him.  But  now,  even  as  to  what  one  might 
consider  the  most  real  thing  in  his  life,  —  his  car- 
ing for  you,  —  it  seems  to  me  there  must  have  been 
a  great  share  of  imagined  sentiment  in  it.  It  was 
not  a  passion  ;  it  was  a  gentle  nature's  dream  of  a 
passion." 

"  He  did  n't  die  of  a  dream,"  said  the  wife. 

44  No,  he  died  of  a  fever*" 

u  He  had  got  well  of  the  fever." 

44  That 's  very  true,  my  dear.  And  whatever  hia 
head  was,  he  had  an  affectionate  and  faithful  heart. 
I  wish  I  had  been  gentler  with  him.  I  must  often 
have  bruised  that  sensitive  soul.  God  knows  I  'm 
•orry  for  it.  But  he 's  a  puzzle,  he  's  a  puzzle  1 " 

Thus  lapsing  more  and  more  into  a  mere  problem 
M  the  years  have  passed,  Don  Ippolito  has  at  last 


A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.  265 

ceased  to  be  even  the  memory  of  a  man  with  a  pas- 
sionate love  and  a  mortal  sorrow.  Perhaps  this 
final  effect  in  the  mind  of  him  who  has  realized  the 
happiness  of  which  the  poor  priest  vainly  dreamed 
is  not  the  least  tragic  phase  Df  the  tragedy  of  Don 
Ippolito. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


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